At the End

Dying, she thinks,
'Mother rubbed our rough backs'
thinking Death and living
are the permanent things

Bleeding on the floor,
she counts: her dragging breaths,
daydreams under seagull squeals,
the yellow shores stored in childhood,

thinking Death and living
and memories
are the permanent things
she thinks, dying,

'Mother rubbed our rough backs
smooth with lotion, our patent skin
glowing in the failing daylight'
thinking Death and living

and light and memories
are the permanent things
Bleeding on the floor,
she counts: her purging breath,

the panic-gasps of drowning before
the shock of Mother stealing her
out of the death-hungry ocean,
thinking Death is the permanent thing.

Dying, she thinks,
thinking Death thinking permanent
Bleeding on the floor, she counts:
thinking thinking thinking thinking.

'Mother rubbed our rough backs'