What I Know

Deliberate and slow, my mother moved
toward death, a steady shifting like a dance
in dreamlike states. Her motions only proved
a disenchantment with this life's romance.

I hear the message tacit in her words -
a last recorded voicemail. She expressed
an end complaint, in scolding, like a bird's
keen warning. I dare not approach the nest.

Instead I wait and wander room to room
pretending we were close - and I, held dear
but someone else's home and heart and womb
rejected me to be abandoned here.

Now I too dance, deliberate and slow
in dreamlike states, avoiding what I know.