They sat her down at the table-
“Labour is love”
They told her.
And what is a woman
Without a mouth to feed?
I know she wishes she could pluck the sickness out of him ;
Like a raspberry
And swallow whole,
This disease that made him unlovable; her
Final supper for the man
She was taught is God.
I swear I remember, they used to butcher
Their own steak dinners;
Now her arms shake as she pours his cereal.
Her hands are crumpled like paper, but she’s leading him to the head of the table.
She paces through his halls searching for his feet, (she knows to kneel)
But he’s too sick to stand now.
He didn’t die at the cross, but
She continues to pray,
The shape of herself dissolved in his shadow.
(Once he’s gone) I know my mother will tell me
How she’s seeing ghosts, and I’ll keep writing my stories,
But my mother, I think,
Will be picking at the bread in the middle of the night,
Wondering why she is hungry because she’s forgotten
She was too busy fetching his supper for 53 years to eat.
And I want to know
If he held her cheeks
And kissed her goodbye,
Or just told her to make sure his bed was done up right.