Poetry is the language of intensity. Because we are going to die, an expression of intensity is justified.

                                      — C.D. Wright



Grateful acknowledgement is made to Oana Cambrea for the use of her digital art, Autumn (2007).



To sweat



under a billow of quilts and rest:
my mother asked for nothing more

during her last days. It was autumn;
she turned continuously in sleep

as if cold fingers played her spine
like saxophone. The brightest

object in the room was a pitcher
of orange juice. Often we squeezed

hands for lack of things to say.
Metastasis oozed from her pores,

filled my mouth with the aftertaste
of crushed pills. Down the hall,

lovebirds twittered the steel cage
to life. A tabby stalked them

while she murmured in dreams.
She was often inside dancing.

Wallpaper irises quickened
her pulse with piano solos,

and the carpet was thick
with animal scents. When she

woke up, she'd call it the room
of virgins limned with bleeding

palms. She refused to eat.
I stirred coffee long after it had

turned cold. In the half-light,
her fists opened like cereuses—

the future lost between the lines.



                         previously published in Poet Lore (Volume 102)