This “experimental” “poem” (feel like I should put both words separated in quotes because I rarely write like this) was previously published on The Community Storyboard.
* * *
She called me her little Puerto Rican.
I was too young to remember, she said.
Not until I was an adult,
and she lay on her bed, her white hair spread like a fan on the pillow,
her wrinkled, spotted hands folded on her chest,
her opaque eyes fixed on the bluebird outside her window.
Marie at 1 Write Way 