My Mother’s New Bras

The old pomegranate, storm-hit, propped up

with sticks, sends out a green shoot that goes

straight and up from the root but brings

no hope for the stricken tree. It’s the same

for my ninety-year-old mother.

Broken-boned, assisted out of bed, she

goes to the mirrored cupboard, straightens her

back, and takes a long look at herself. Secretly,

she once sent for some cotton bras that

turned out to be a few sizes too big and were

later found among her urinous clothes,

unworn, stiff, in their original folds.