Last Time I Saw Her

The Japanese maple burned

a fire warming crops

of the quilts

pieced flowers and nine patch.

My mother wears three plastic bracelets

fern green like her eyes, white then red

ominous and large

with black type face DNR.

We lie our bodies curled

a question mark on each

side of the space between us.

My hand cupped against her cheek

forgive me whispers almost unheard.

My chains clink softly

slide across her legs

a reminder that separation is lapping closer

All our lives refined to this one moment

not unlike labor and delivery.

This time we will both leave the room

by different exits