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by Meggie Royer

My father waits on patients again,
the woman with a knifed spine that almost paralyzed her
first in line, morning breaking across the window
like hunger.
Yesterday, waking from some forgotten dream she found
she could not move, laid back by sleep,
felled for the briefest of moments
before the body returned to itself again.
On evenings he stays on the porch
with beer in a mason jar,
tells us the stories of all his deranged ones
as we lie across his knee.
How beautiful, he said, to be stilled
for a few seconds
and watch the world ending. 

Meggie Royer is a writer and photographer from the Midwest who is currently majoring in Psychology at Macalester College. Her poems have previously appeared in Words Dance Magazine, The Harpoon Review, Melancholy Hyperbole, and more. She has won national medals for her poetry and a writing portfolio in the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards.