My sixty-two-year-old mother
shuffles from her plastic-covered
chair down the hall. What if I spill
something? she answers when asked
about the years gone by. Outside,
the fig, snow-sunk, rests wrapped
in tarp—duct taped for winter.
Each huddled limb manages hope
despite the smothering. She closes
the door, presses into an ashtray
hidden under the sink, cradling buds.
Varicose blue stretches across skin
scoured and rinsed. Smoke and steam
rise toward the window, into the sky.