Morning

after Gwendolyn Brooks

The morning of her death she

woke fierce, some dormant force revived,

insistent. For the last time

I sat my mother up, shifted the loose mass

of her body to lean against me. Her dried-up

legs dangled next to mine, triumphs

of will, all the mornings she forced

herself to spritz cheap perfume,

hoist each pendulous breast into

its halter, place the straps in the old

ruts. We were alone, petals

falling from bouquets crowded

around us. I pulled

some pillows behind me when I couldn’t

hold her any longer

and we rested there, the

body of my mother slumped

against my breast, the slow droop

of green stalks in their vases.

Her long-exhaled breaths

kept coming against her

resolve. And in the exquisite

pauses in between

I could feel her settle—

the way an infant

grows heavier and heavier

in your arms

as it falls asleep.