My mother's nurses have slipped into beautician-flesh
and brought her fingernails to life
with muted shades of red
It's the contrast against the white-hot creases of her skin
which taunts my recognition
as I move from the windows with the sun
bleeding through
and my eyes lave the shadows of her grin

Lifting up, I can hear her blood stir in
The porcelain doll veins of her body
and I approach her with the diffidence of
an awe-struck child

I brush dark locks from her cool forehead
and patter fingertips against her pallor like
nervous raindrops over her opaque lips
and I kiss the tip of her cheek

Lying there, she is perfect and inaccessible
Loved and vanquished
Heavy with remote beauty churning
under her palms

I linger above the calm of her
and immortalize her position to my every thought
Writing her down with a careful retina
and spelling her out in the seconds of a gaze
so that my fingers may one day form
an accurate record of her sleeping grace

01/27/2005

Author's Note: She was in a coma; I watched her with patient eyes.

Posted on 01/28/2005
Copyright © 2024 Michelle Floyd