The Last Week

I thought she would want to save me

from it, the stench and shame,

but in the last week of dying,

my mother let me change her diaper,

let me wipe her with a warm, wet cloth

and slide the sheet under her hips,

the flesh softening, bones widening,

gravity pulling her back to earth like fallen fruit.

I need to say how precise she was.

She had a rage for order, my mother.

In the store she wrapped half-pints of cheap gin

with the same care she gave to Chivas Regal.

She smoothed the glossy holiday paper,

folding the torn edge under, sharpening

the crease with her thumbnail,

tucking the ends into a humble origami.

I thought she’d cling to her dignity

but she seemed to forgive her body,

all its chaos and collapse,

or maybe it was a final ripening

of trust or love, abandon.

I’m not sure what to call it.