Soliloquies Anthology 30.1

You opened the door and there she was:

Your mother, an axe in one hand, a knife in the other.

She looked confused, so you reached for her

and she let you take her tools away. Gently. Softly.

You say you stroked her hair and it was straw.

You say it cracked beneath your hands, and she cried.

/

The first nurse you saw blamed infection,

not dementia, not dripping summer heat.

You tell me between sips of coffee

that this is fixable, is now fixed.

But she took the bus to you, armed and ready for nothing!

Do you not picture her climbing its steps,

her motherhood losing its shape?

Do you not wonder if she paid her fare?