And They Didn't Die

for my mother, who has done all things wellI bring a squall of quiet, my hectoring force, to shamethe belated fog of orders and bandages into a fine mist.I am here to squelch reason’s panic. Certaintyis scrambled and we find only Vaseline, thick with scent,and too heavy to churn the waters. If they wept no tearsthey would not know I will not shed any.If there were no tremors they would not know me. Unshaken.I will outlive them. I will bury them in my question: What more?This is what we have done since beforethe border between wild and free was pinnedlike steel and plaster, animal and woman, birthand death. Only daughters are shoulderedinto becoming Mother, coldwithout children, colder still after birth.This is how it has always been.All we cannot know is when

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