My mother, my moon of peace.

She was a frightened bird
In her hospital gown.

My mother, the center of myself.

The words left her lips
Like a herd of startled deer.

Scattered, she spoke
Of a loose fear,
Of not being able to change her lifestyle.

My mother, my stillness at three a.m.

“I don’t think I can change,”
I pressed her hand,
Wishing it was me laying there
Instead.

My mother, the invisible
Space between us
Leans toward the sun.
It always has.

“Thank God you are here,”
I said,. She thought she
Was having a heart attack.
It turns out she had blood
Clots sucking the life
Out of her lungs.

My mother,
The face of my youth,
Still,
At 74.

Fear swims through her body.
“I can’t do it. I can’t. It’s too much,”
She didn’t say that, but I heard it.

My mother,
My mirror smeared with love.

I left the room with trembling hands.
She couldn’t see that, but she held them until they became still.