Poetry: Maggie Morton

Madness

The thread which holds
his right and left
together,
so old
it finally breaks.
His stories
become wider,
wilder,
stretching the truth
so thin
it can’t hold
the weight of all his words.
Late each night,
his daughter
wipes his brow.
Salt is laid
in a thin, ghostly line
to keep the bad dreams out.
In the morning,
she will use it to make bread,
even though her tears
are salt enough.