On her sixtieth birthday
they pricked her with a syringe,
and granted the dry crust of mercy she fell
into a few days’ imitation of sleep.
Containers of soup arrived in the kitchen,
and soft potted plants,
but the leafless vine
with its clutch of roots in her belly
thorn by thorn infiltrated her room,
tapped on the window,
scratched at the ceiling,
tightened crooked arms around her.
Sometimes her eyes stirred
under their covers
as if she sensed
that she should have been dreaming,
until the bramble held to her lips
the single flower that sealed them.