The universe is made of stories, not of atoms.
—Muriel Rukeyser
I sit here from morning until evening
while liquids drip into my mother’s
body through what they call a port,
an opening they carved because
her veins are soft. Hanging from
a crane, four bags dock into her,
one for hunger, two for hurt,
the third for c. difficile, and blood
to wage her battle. They drip and I sit.
Read to Mom, my sister tells me,
she still enjoys animal stories.
So I bring a children’s book,
Balto, bravest dog ever, who
saved the entire town of Nome
from diphtheria, and nobody
had to die. Do you want to hear
this story? Move your hand,
Mom, raise your fingers a little.
She doesn’t move.
Are stories beside the point now?
Do you want to hear about Dad?
I’ll tell you what he’s doing.
She doesn’t move. He’s smashing
cans. He smashes them with
a sledgehammer and puts them
in bags and takes them to recycle.
Nobody can fit more cans in a bag
than Dad. No one gets them flatter.
but there is, I think, a quality
of attention. We all believe
what we want to believe.
She’s not moving her hand,
but still, I think she’s listening.