Sport 31: Spring 2003
Death's web
Death's web
Today there is a fine webbing
on my mother's face. She looks
through it, as if accustomed
in a theme park ride
to have these cotton threads
brush and lightly settle.
Are not her wrinkles deep?
Is this not the lightest touch
which she might desire
a softening of her vision
as on the Ghost Train ride
as a young bright bride
accompanied by her husband
determined to be no less brave
when the cotton/cobwebs parted
and the train plunged into blackness
on its fake/fear slide.
Then there was light and daze
and now, a presage. She smiles
but sinks too, as if
a light weight is meticulously measured.