An original poem by Kathryn Cody
Cutting off Grandma’s Legs
It began with her feet,
when the purple swells beneath her skin erupted,
turned toes yellow, then green, then black.
They cut the small ones off first, toe by toe.
The next time, the cutting was easier;
they didn’t look much like feet by then,
and she couldn’t walk anyway,
they told themselves.
She has already forgotten the fleshy parts of her,
disposed of in the proper medical waste container.
She doesn’t even remember the family
that held the reluctant knife.
She knows only the space beneath her hands
as she dreams about Grandpa
and strokes her invisible thigh.