Weeding

Weeding the carnations, you cry.You say you feel you're vanishing,that you really do want to vanish beforeyour gums pull away from your teeth,and you forget to turn off the stove.Your mother gave you marked-down bananasand a washcloth for your birthday,weeps reading TV Guide aloud,deploys random nouns—Burger King, grandchild, teacup, giraffe—as adjectives,roosts in assisted livingon her bed in a posture of conversation,lips parted, leaning in, but looking away."What's it like to be ninety-six, Louise?" I ask.,"Not everything is like something else, dear," she says."Don't be Walmart."