Black capped terns track ahead of me. Morning.
Beach. Deserted. I walk where waves break
then spill their energy.
Sand solid like skin. I sink slightly, still held safe.
Hospice nurses from Miami start Critical Care.
Later, I hear it called Comfort Care. They can
read the phases of her breathing, the pallor of skin.
Still in her wheelchair a shot of morphine
helps her breathe. They take her to her room.
I follow like a noun: Daughter.
Seven states away my mother’s life mooned into loss:
First keys, then walking, then, as though the new moon
hidden in the shadow of the sun, speech.
All my life she perched on a broken branch.
Settled in her dream state,
I take my rented car, bring back tacos
for the nurses who talk about lunch.