My mother wakes up late these days.
I help her to get up. I put on her glasses.
We walk to the bathroom. Twenty five steps, slowly.
I hold both her hands as if we were dancing.
She brushes her feet against the floor.
I walk backwards.
It is kind of cloudy today. She says that every morning
since her sight started to fail.
She sits on the toilet, rubs her eyes,
runs her fingers through her hair trying to remove
the remains of last night’s medication.
I am about to prepare the bath. What is that? she says.
There is a dead moth in the bathtub.
How is she able to see it?
She cannot read anymore,
she cannot sew—she loved sewing,
cannot watch TV—it bothers her eyes.
She still has good peripheral vision.
The doctor has told me.
The moth has left a trail behind—golden, glittery.
Calligraphy written by a drunken hand.
A trail of dance and death.
It’s just a moth, mother. They come in at night. I tell her.
I clean the bathtub with toilet paper. I let the water run.
I start to remove my mother’s night gown.
Five buttons on her chest.
This must be the end of summer, she says.
2013
Regular
Contemporary
2023
Family
Love & Relationships
Allusion
an expression designed to call something to mind without mentioning it explicitly; an indirect or passing reference
Imagery
visually descriptive or figurative language, especially in a literary work
Juxtaposition
the fact of two things being seen or placed close together with contrasting effect
Metaphor
a comparison between two unrelated things through a shared characteristic
Personification
the attribution of human qualities to a non-human thing
Repetition
a recurrence of the same word or phrase two or more times
Symbolism
a word, object, action, character, or concept that embodies and evokes a range of additional meaning and significance.