Marguerite
Focused and remote like a Himalayan climber, you grasp my thumb with strong fingers, your legs bowing under the pack of your chest. The cotton hospital hat frames your dark face, and when your eyes slide open, they are deep, as you contemplate the swish of your blood, the ticking of each cell. I look and look at you, and listen, breathless— As a child, I was allowed to hold my father's watch in my hands. I dared to imagine it mine.
—Susan Mibeck
Susan Mibeck enjoys writing poetry and is a graduate of the
University of North Dakota.
