I think of her lying in bed alone,
ridged shit-stained fingernails
and the blue bulge of veins under translucent skin;
bony hands curved inward, silently cursing agility
they can no longer manage.
Silk lily of the valley embedded in white porcelain;
a Christmas gift from me,
daughter distant as a morning star.
Gazes at them blankly, even fondly,
appreciating, perhaps, their lack of need
at a time when she cannot caretake;
tending blossoms instead with her eyes.
Flowers that remain open like she never could,
not bending slender alabaster necks
just to wither and drop away;
no reminder of where she, herself is headed.
Angry at memories, pushing them aside,
currying instead morphia’s favor.
Don’t ask me to account for anything,
she seems to say;
Let me close my eyes at last,
into that blank slate of white.