does she dream

it's hard
to see your mother lying
there,
wordless.
when was she ever without
something to say?
her glasses lost, or taken,
the white hair
still thick and pulled
behind
against a stranger's pillow.
it's difficult
to remember how she laughed
and told a story,
how she felt
your head for fever,
told you to come inside,
dinner was ready.
how a single sip of wine
made her dizzy.
and now,
still alive, barely,
she lies there with all of
life behind
her.