Sickroom

I try to carry the gravestone

from the darkness of my mother's sickroom—

scratches of light around drawn shades—

outside, the gold and red of autumn.

She is like a queen in exile

scraping with her nails on silk walls

her message of anger, her weak

insatiable demands and regrets.

I want her to grow rosy old

like a maple leaf, ripening,

yielding only to that ice edged wind that must come

and cut her down—like me, like everyone.