Noose and Hook

While my mother lies in a hospital bed tethered to the

46 While my mother lies in a hospital bed tethered to the earth by the guy wires of two IVs. I run the streets with her leg still splayed in ballet’s first position, with the snare her skin throws over me, the gristle of our skull more prominent, the hair draining from our head. I run until sobs sough through the sieve of us. I run, shutting first one of her eyes then the other: the left that gripped handle by handle, the objects in their windows, the right that drunkenly wobbled. Rooms close their shutters until the right lid drops its curtain, smothers its sight, so now the left mothers me among the shadows where we are so weary with the weight of us our breath almost cannot, cannot, cannot, cannot, nor our lips, nor our knees, and the hard darkness is padlocked with a huge heart, no place to put a key or lock or unlock. emmanuel noose i-62.indd 46 1/4/10 4:32 PM ...