Mother’s face caves
like a mountain of flour
under poured milk.
I will watch her face
fall and fall
’til it’s a puddle
at the top of her neck.
“No one will want the furniture,”
she says; “No one ever
wants old furniture.”
Careless air
flounces her stray hairs.
Once she’s a log
in a hole in the ground
I’ll gather and glue on
her carriers. I can’t
bear it—my fingerprints
smothering hers.
I want to say something
kind. We’re quiet
as she composes.
She doesn’t breathe deep,
simply turns the water off,