Tomorrow’s Tired Fighter

by Meciah Blacknoll

Yesterday I buried my grandmother. She wasn’t my grandma by blood, She took me in when I was five and I was hers. I called her Mama Ann.

I would visit her often. I was visiting her six months ago, I had been fighting. I’m a fighter, I didn’t tell her that though. I didn’t want her to worry. Fighters don’t write poems.

Even now my faintly concussed mind struggles to find words but manages keeps pace with my shaky hands as my bruised knuckles struggle to hold this pencil. I dread the idea of typing this later.

She knew. She had a razor tongue, And these piercing eyes. Her words cut me gently. She told me “You look tired”. I was.

She knew because she knew what it was to be tired. She didn’t write poems.

Three weeks ago, I visited Mama Ann in the hospital. It was my birthday.

She hadn’t opened her eyes in days but she looked at me. Her eyes told me she was tired. She was.

Enough to write poetry.

Today I’m sad because I miss my friend

Today she rests and

Today I wrote a poem because Today I’m too tired to fight.