she calls once a week from the bus—
forty minutes to the hospital—with updates:
the surgery went well. the swelling
should be down in time to start
treatments next week.
it’ll be four hours a day, then.
the dogs are getting lonely.
she’s already lost five pounds.
the church put her on the prayer list.
she wishes I were there.
I make french toast for breakfast on school days;
I drink green tea four times a day; I run
twelve miles a week. I light vanilla incense
and wash my hair in the sink. I sleep
alone except on nights
I don’t want to sleep alone—I take Xanax
to stop the dreams. I clean the floors
twice a week; I soak in bubbles
every Sunday; I cradle an onyx necklace
between two fingers to keep
any demons away.
I call my mother once a week to say I scrubbed
the bathtub and dried the dishes by hand—
that I wrote a new poem
and ate donuts for lunch—that I have
two cigarettes each morning
and two glasses of wine
at night—the extra one for her. I tell her
how I pray for her,
the only ways she taught me how.