After the calm of her prayer (silent)
came the real raw: she looked up at me
all Bedlam-eyed, abruptly,
my mother. … Snowfall rushing
a vast and audible
sibilance around the hospital. …
Streetlamps, funnels of light
furiously in reverse: vortices
vetoed by the picayune
squeak of nurses’ shoes,
cardio-beeps. … My mother
looked up at me
wildly when I walked in,
snow on my coat, because
the past and the future skein
their faceted, nipped-at uniques
hissing like a pit of snakes, as if
to whip an old woman’s face.
She knew something, her skin was so smooth.
That’s when she looked up, afraid of me.