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The Hotel by the Lake
We were travelers together,
you said of those nights of false hope
when she would say, "I think this is it."
By then you were sleeping
on a cot near the door,
and the strength of her voice in the dark
was like her hand holding your wrist.
You would wake your father,
pack her toothbrush and nightgown,
and he would help her into the car.
By then she was bloated,
her tissues spongy with water,
the cancer blossoming in her body.
Each time it was the same hospital room.
"This is where I'm going to die,"
she would say, and there was nothing
to stop her from saying it
to you, to your father.
He stayed home after the first rehearsal and said,
"You go. She feels more comfortable with you."
To the end she thought
the doctors would put her to sleep
the way it was done with animals,
simply,
the way one brought the family
dog to the vet's.
Sleep in a vial on a small metal tray.
A day to plan for,
to mark on the calendar.
She told you which dress she wanted to wear.
There were mornings she woke
disappointed to find
she was still alive.
CATHY SONG
The room had no view
but at night
when the hospital was quiet
and she was asleep,
the soft closing of a door down the hall,
the dim light at her bedside,
a cough heard somewhere,
made it seem as though it were a hotel,
like the hotel in Switzerland by the lake
where the two of you had stayed one summer.
And you were simply traveling together,
your mother having turned in early
for her "beauty sleep,"
and you, up late as usual,
studying the map,
planning tomorrow's itinerary,
taking care of everything -
the suitcases packed and ready
for the porter's knock in the morning.
ADAGIO
She lifts her hands
like seagulls above the keys,
the stubborn teeth of notes
she must sink and rise into,
giving herself to music.
Music met most days with resistance,
small fingers confined to a drill of steps.
Every good boy does fine.
All cows eat grass.
This is going nowhere,
I can hear her sigh.
I know.
I've been there.
I can see where I jumped
into air, mid-flight