You bought her new clothes to wear as she lay dying –
blouses fell past her gone-breast like satin –
the white flesh buckled with scar tissue.
And brand new pots and pans she could barely
lift, to cook imaginary meals for nobody.
Why did you bother? These were not hand-me-downs,
but the genuine article. I hated the new blouses,
and now use those pots and pans that came to me.
After all is said and done will someone
please locate a single deed of selflessness?
Or solitary speech of bone, home, lone truth?
Anything to bring my mother back. Useless.
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