she's unwhole,
lying in the same bed for nine
months.
her glasses gone,
her voice silent.
she's underwater, does she hear,
does she
know her son who
sits on the bed beside
her
and holds her hand.
it's a sad room.
a dark
room down the hall.
we pray,
I push her hair back.
I wipe her
chin of food.
I cry and feel for her life
which isn't a life
anymore,
but a slow death.
and after she dies
someone else
will
lie where she lies,
another son will come and
think these things
as well.
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