for my mother.

the drip of an iv is like 
the cool touch of water
as you dive into the swimming pool
in our backyard last summer.

standing in the sunlight,
waiting for redemption
from a diagnosis that doesn't include
seeing your son graduate or feeling
your granddaughter's breath 
on your shoulder.

she gently falls asleep.

you wish that you could stay a little longer.
but you've got god's plans to realize.
your voice is shrinking into the receiver.
i'm feeling a little tired of feeling guilty.

you sound so much smaller than 
the woman i had known so often
before. the woman who had 
labeled me the miracle, 
once.

i was your bargain with god.
i wish i could stay a little longer.

but i'll leave you to your iv.
a cool touch of water 
in our swimming pool.
we'll redeem each other soon.