Poem-a-Day

that I was close enough
to put my arms around my mother
 
and slip my body beneath hers
as she crumpled.
 
The floor was cool.
The house was quiet.
 
Outside, the cosmos
were opening their petals,
 
emergency brakes wearing out.
How long we lay there
 
I couldn't say. My mother
had no desire to get up
 
or open her eyes or ask
what year it was
 
or where we were going.
She was heavier and softer
 
than I knew.
Against the thin blue glaze
 
of her veins I placed three fingers
and counted.
 
“This is bliss,” she said.
I heard the mailman
 
climb the steps to the front door
and drop something in the black box
 
and I knew my mother would be happy
to find something left there for her,
 
even if it were only
a save-the-date announcement.
 
"This is bliss," she said again,
and I became a gondola holding her,
 
a field, a hammock, a cradle,
a blue pagoda, a passenger ship.