For my mother
There have been strange visitations
You felt only now and then, when
The dog lay in the middle of the road
Refusing to walk, sensing you about to faint;
Or when you got up from the table
And the house moved with you
As if on a merry-go-round, the porcelain
Spinning in a brief, silent film.
Someone read the map of your brain
And found there ravaged side-roads:
“Interval development of subcortical infarct,
Of the upper left frontal operculum, chronic now.”
“Operculum” is a lid, acoperire—the word
Protects our vulnerable language, itself in need
Of sheltering by something less brittle.
Your new hair color looks lovely!
Wait until I get there, please, stay till
I can come to hold you and talk about cures;
Now the roads are blocked, a virus stalks and kills,
People fall like grapes from vines. I’ll be there.