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My mother-in-law can’t cut her toenails anymore,

can’t see to tweeze the hairs on her chin.

She’s got enough of her mind to be aware

how much she’s dimming every day.

What for? she says over and over.

But when I ask if she’s really had it,

she says no, she wants another day.

She wants a new black sweater—and earrings.

I gave you all my good earrings, she says,

looking at me as though I’m going to steal

the gold out of her teeth.