The Undersea World of Jacques Cousteau
While my mother chokes on a fishbone,
I am shuffled into another room
to watch The Undersea World of Jacques Cousteau.
Bubbles rush upwards from
a diver’s mouthpiece
as my mother coughs up blood.
Beyond the window,
snowflakes rim the leafless trees.
The deep teems with presences.
My mother’s face takes on
a distressing error in form.
Disagree with half of it, enjoy reading all of it
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