Mother lies like an Etruscan noblewoman
on the bed, arms crossed over her bosom.
A little pot of pansies on the sill
was a gift I brought months ago. 

Somebody waters the plant, I suppose,
now and then, but it is withering slowly
like her breasts, once like sovereign orbs,
now androgynous swells beneath her hands.

Her eyes open. I strain to remember
what color they were, once.
I watch as they stare into middle distance,
the cogs clicking awkwardly as she registers:

the ceiling, her daughter, and,
I imagine last of all, “I am still alive.”
Their color, now a black translucency
behind which all is hidden,

was once golden, a darker shade to
match her youthful, cotton candy hair,
now slicked in gray strands
to her head. Somebody loves us all.

*Inspired by a poetry prompt from my son, Maggie Haas, during one or another poetry month in recent times. The prompt was to use a line from “Filling Station” by Elizabeth Bishop. I chose her last line, which is also mine: “Somebody loves us all.”