Ten years ago tonight
we were watching
our mother die.


The bedroom -  with her
beloved blue shutters -
littered with used
medical equipment

her low moans.

Someone inside me
remembers the stench
of cancer

Now  her three daughters
stand in a triangle with
our backs turned -


and no one says a word.

I am not reading poetry.
I am cupping the words
in my hands, pouring them
over my head, rubbing them
through my skin, into my bones
breathing in
breathing out

becoming a poem

Sharon fears she is invisible.
"Can you see my face?"
she asks twenty times each day
or "Am I wearing lipstick?"
She clutches my forearm with
surprising strength as I answer "Yes"
and "Yes Sharon, I can see you."
"Thank you" she sighs, stands carefully
and wanders away.

I am a poet who cannot write,
a reader who cannot follow a sentence.

I wear four sweaters yet cannot feel warm,
know secrets I cannot tell.

I want to run but have no place to go,
I am screaming but cannot open my mouth.