Geraniums
Each morning a gentle hand
with moistened towels
wipes the caked blood
off Mom's lips.
Wilted blooms drip
read on my deck.
I break them off at the stem
brutally, without remorse
and wipe their stain clean.
My Mother's lungs
are dying on the vine
with no way to pluck off
the dead members.
Dry, withered leaves
are plucked
and discarded from my plant
in the same manner.
What was done today?
I ask the nurse as she
combs Mom's hair and
straightens her robe.
I slide the pot East,
turning it to get the full sunlight.
I use the water nose to
drench the plant,
flooding the pot to the brim.
Her wheelchair is pushed
to the window
where the morning sun
warms her and soothes.
Then, I go inside,
to admire the view
from my window.
By Annette Gagliardi
Published in Open Your Eyes: A Poetry Anthology, edited by Kevin Watt, Social Design Publishing, 2016.
Published in A Short Supply of Viability by A. Gagliardi, The Poetry Box Press, 2022.