Glory
Jaisha Jansena
The rhythm of my mother ’ s death march happens like this : her chest yawns . Something inside of her rises up , stretches its arms through her rib cage , and takes flight . There ’ s a different bounce to her thoughts now . They almost seem to echo , seem to tumble through her throat .
She used to feel full but now she ’ s cavernous . The rhythm of my mother ’ s death march happens like this : slowly . She dissolves tiny chunks of bread under her tongue , leaves lazy ice cubes to melt at her bedside . She licks at them for absolution .
My head is on fire , she says . And her silhouette smokes .
I stack every pillow in the house , spend 5 dollars on ice cream . The fries go cold . The milk ’ s expired and I ’ m asleep at the back of the Uber . Something else moves me from the house to the hospital and back again because it isn ’ t me . It isn ’ t almost 1 in the a ernoon . It isn ’ t my feet kicking the sunlight at the end of her bed . And it isn ’ t my hand dipping into the covers , twitching for the bright red button .
I want to name the thing that swirls through her navel . I see her lips waver over her breath . I see the night explode with her coughs . I count the seconds between her inhales . But silence seeps in and ruins the room so my obsession unfolds . Gloves sleep between us now . But her nails dig into my palm anyway . I want to let go . I want to hold on .
She cries for her mother , her father , her son . She cries for West Virginia , for the field and the forest , for that wrap-around porch , that so carpet of dry green leaves . She cries for home .
I cry too .