Elizabeth Smither
My mother visits me in hospital
My mother appears at
the end of the bed
making a fine contrast
to the nurses.
She is beautifully and
elaborately dressed.
All this furniture, she
seems to be saying,
is the flimsiest the
world offers;
these cabinets with
their wilting flowers
and the water jug and
glass, the control
panel on the wall like
an abstract painting.
Nothing matches the
crease of her skirt
or the gloves she takes
off her fingers
in mockery of the
surgeon putting his on.
I shall have my way
with my daughter
I shall bring her out
of this place
of bogus and fruitless
whiteness
her wound will heal
under my ministrations
as the outside world
fills up with detail
caught in light and
love. She stands
and the sunlight falls
from her skirt.