Sometimes I try to imagine
My mother, walking in the gloaming,
Clutching her too small coat across
the shame that wasn't me,
but poverty.
Anne Boyer speaks of beds
And I think of Nurse Moon, her head
bent as she works her skill with
scissors, setting me free,
To enter silently.
Story tells how the house holds its breath,
Listeners awaiting a joyful cry,
But I am quiet, my breath is small,
Sipping air involuntarily,
Life entering so slowly
*
Other times I try to remember,
My Mother in her final bed,
Her head so cool as I kissed it
Gasping for air again,
Now silent, once more in pain.
**
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