My Mother’s Friends are Dying and I Don’t Know What to Do (a villanelle)

They barely breathe. She sees their bodies break.

I treat her grief with Sprite and cracker crumbs.

She sleepsobs. There’s no real reason to wake.

She whines about her neck, how great the ache.

I rub it gently with my scabbed red thumbs.

I’m bleeding. She looks at my skin breaks,

flashbacks to Chris’s catheter, which snakes

into her belly. At least she feels numb.

I mean both women. Neither wants to wake

and watch how Judy’s tiny shoulders shake.

Like icing on cake, chewed strawberry gum,

the tumors in her brain. Mom sees her break

and who knows who to hold. Everyone quakes.

I pick my nails. I tear up. I feel dumb.

Now nothing makes my weeping mother wake.

The pantry empties. Mold rots the steak.

Mom forgets how to sing, to chirp and hum.

We learn again together. By daybreak

Hey Jude floats through the house. We’re all awake.