Night Vigil
       

The doctor covers my mother's hand
with his own hand. Her hand is
a speckled egg he is keeping warm.
The nursing assistant reaches out
to touch the yellow roses,
and murmurs, Bonito.
Several people come in and speak
cheerily to the bed covers and the curtains,
but not to my mother,
who no longer makes eye contact.
Trays appear and disappear,
and so do cups of melted ice.
After dinner, I gently remove my mother's teeth
and wash them in the sink.
A male nurse on night duty offers me
a soft cotton blanket, my favorite kind.
As my mother sleeps,
the housekeeper mops the floor.
A gray strand gets caught
around the caster of her bed,
and then it breaks free.

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Copyright © 2020 Christine Higgins All rights reserved
from Hallow
Cherry Grove Collections
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission