My Mother Stepping From the Tub
I will never forget the antiseptic
light, the cloying, overheated
air, my mother stepping from the tub a
rain-soaked bird, her feathers clinging
to the fragile architecture
of her ruined body.
So slight she could have been
my child freshly bathed for
the first day of school,
but she is my mother, ravaged by the ruthless
industry of metastasizing cells.
She is washed clean of the past,
and if I were stronger,
if I had known there was so little
time, I might have held her
wrecked body in my arms.
When I pulled the door closed
its latch clicked into place
like the shutter of a camera.
