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?