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Her face translucent alabaster
skin cool, eyes closed
passing half-smiles, creased brow
momentary clinches of pain.
One or two at a time we come.
Shaved ice in a cup
a sip from a straw
down quilt from home
her favorite music.
We do what we can.
No food for days.
Why can’t she let go?
What transparent threads
hold her to this fading light?
She’s waiting for him to come.
He called yesterday, not today.
We shrug our frustration.
She moves one hand.
Does she hear?
Does she know?
Can the heart of a mother
hide such truth?
She can’t last another day.
We watch and wait
sit together on the couch
quiet old friends
waiting for whatever comes.