1
Yawning, she yanks the shuttle through the frame,
It’s almost time for lunch. She takes a breath,
and notices her hands curled on the wood.
She sees a basket-work of cool blue veins,
and muscles, and, beneath it all, the bones.
Amazed, she hugs them to her sides, and goes
to tell the boss she’s sick. Then she walks home,
gets in the bed she’s left unmade, and stays
until she cannot see beneath the skin.
2
My mother jerks my sister from the box
and folds her in a bolt of calico,
winding her in a yellow, flowered shroud.
Within each wind, she slaps some jewelry
until she’s stripped of any ornament.
She lifts the bundle of my sister up
and with resentment at the letting go
slams it into the short walls of its box.
3
My mother sighs and watches television.
Her hands are in the kitchen, washing dishes,
scrubbing their faces with a Tuffy pad,
and stacking them to dry. She sighs again.
She wants an after-dinner cigarette.
They click the final plate against the others.
She glances toward the hands. They dry themselves,
take out the broom and start to sweep.
4
My mother stares into the unused well.
She’s pulled aside the curling plywood cover
and puzzles at a gossamer of light
inside the dark. Perhaps a spider web.
Then she removes her tanned decaying arms
and drops them through the air beneath the ground.
They’re so diseased they do not even splash,
and Mother, watching them, is suddenly
struck motionless and never moves again.
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