Now that she’s sick —
I can finally love her, really love her, not the clench-jawed
prayers muttered in church pews or under my breath after
she called me a slut and made me change for church
now she’s coughing like the devil at midnight
and I’m in the kitchen burning ginger in oil because she says it helps,
like she said castor oil’s the cure for everything,
like boys would respect me if I talked less, and I’m
pressing fingers against my temples, trying to squeeze grief out
before it fossilizes, she’s so light now I could carry her like a
bag of trash or laundry, the dog has more fight than her
I could forgive her if she asked but she won’t, she still calls
the priest instead of me, still believes this is something prayer
will fix like God’s got favors out of his robe pocket,
and maybe he does but while she sleeps I peel oranges
into the bowl she once hurled at the wall when my father forgot
her birthday, and I want to say I love you like it’s a goddamn last meal,
a confession, but all I do is keep the fruit cold,
wipe her forehead,
and wait.
