By Denise England
Dedicated to Austen Jeanette Bell
The plastic cup could only hold one ounce
of liquid or a few pills, two or three;
you swallowed them then from your bed you threw
down the wretched vessel in defiance.
But as it flew, it floated like a sail
and bounced as soft as cotton off the nurse.
Her cheek flushed pink and from my perch I burst,
scooping the cup I urged you to impel
it harder as it caused you great offense.
And when you’d thrown it wildly but not further,
your fury not yet spent I said to murder
this tiny demon symbol of your cancer.
Yet though pulverized, it was resilient,
like you. At twelve mere years, you my niece, are valiant.
Denise England is a Francophile and lover of poetry, art, travel and medieval cathedrals. Having studied in Bordeaux, France, before completing an M.A. in French literature, her passion for French language and literature, as well as her travels abroad with her husband Heath and family, inspire much of her writing. Her work seeks to find elements of faith and connection in the sensations of life. She enjoys sharing and developing her poetry within communities of other poets and artists, including The Muse Writing Center in Norfolk, Virginia, and Spectra Arts in Northwest Arkansas, where she lives.