It’s already begun. I sense air
on bone, pollen sticking to pancreas.
Wisps of her hang in the air like breath
from a candle. There is smoke
and there are mirrors; one
has nothing to do with the other.
I want to ask her how she relearned
to move, how she’ll move on in a day
or a week when her mother lifts away,
back to her own parents. One loose thread
between my teeth and memory unravels.
What pools at my feet is unwoven
and unweavable, but I can wear it. Is this
how my mother sees her prognosis, as
textiles untethered and tightening
at her throat? Is she warm?