The doctor squeezes hard to see what hurts,
and my mother says nothing.  
She thinks it’s the ice water in her veins,
not that her best parts are titanium and plastic.
No wonder Security thinks she’s a hoot  
at the hospital gate 
wielding those knees, those hips, and her cane
like a pistol, daring them one false move. 
They laugh when they put her through the scanner
and pretend to pat her down.  Surely, she allows 
because otherwise they might come after me, 
for chronic disobedience, threats of matricide,
for crimes against mothers 
even more despicable to name.
And I would squeal like an infant 
if men with badges looked at me wrong.  
 
Impassive is her brand, her stock-in-trade, 
and not a trait she’s passed on.   
I often rail about all that’s unfair
that’s unfurled in our lives,
and what’s likely to come in the little life left—
and why not wait for the great hereafter?  
My mother knows there is no God:
the hurts she’s known have never been healed—
a thankless child, the earth 
nearly emptied of all she knew,
and still without form. 
Then, having to live in it 
so goddamn long.