Old Woman in a Shoe by Robyn Hunt is not so old, hair like butter, but years of stooping to clear the clutter, children’s clothes, smart magazines has worn her hips right through fingertips too Raising a child can keep one young but two dozen are a sharp pebble lot too many marbles to spit or chew Hardly 40, trying to recall why she wished this hungry abundance Her husband sleeps, his glasses embedded in the bridge of his nose, a New York Review falls from his fingers, deep in the pungent orchard their home, tattered heel, stubbed toe, laces so knotted they will never thread.
Santa Fe Literary Review
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