don't bring her cookies
anymore,
the woman who unlocks the door
tells you.
no chocolates either.
it's all going straight
through her, she says, making
a quick hand gesture
from her neck to
below her waist to give
you a visual of your
mother's failing digestive
system.
you set the box of Christmas
cookies
on the table in the main
room, where
the others, go at it
like piranhas in
their satin and lace.
you smile, then hand your
mother
her new slippers. purple
with candy canes.
I like them she says,
she likes everything
these days.
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