You used to text me
about my deceased mother,
on that anniversary.
Like I had not noticed;
Like I needed reminding,
Because, I guess, you felt I was not
Sufficiently sad,
Or that I understood only too obtuse
the fragility of life,
How it slews
and skeins unpredictably
sometimes into fear,
or that you also had a claim on her love.
You did.
And you remembered for me.
How nice.
Harsh?
Yes. Right. Maybe.
I bathed her as she cried
without her breasts,
just a clean swipe across her pale, boney chest.
The wheel coming close around,
Like it did for you.
So when you emerged
From air-lock isolation,
I, too, caught my breath,
Thinking you really had dodged a bullet.
It is a kind of miracle, right?
Don’t you think the sky is a special blue?
