I comb your hair and cut your meat as if it's time to plant a tulip in the earth, rake thick soil of motherhood that rooted us in confidence and stroked our cherub dreams to sleep. The curling iron is heating up, conversing with the burn of doom, as if its round had links to peace like salesmen pushing vitamins. Making light of aging's scorch and slipping disks. We aren't the Frisbees that we were. Hallmark cards are dildos for orgasmic tears that pen their scripts behind a drape.
Wrinkles take their minor scales.
A squirt of perfume on your skin stings where needles entered there. Ridiculous, as answers go, but I respect the need to reach. I've written menus of diversion, ordered every meal they served. Belladonna bugle calls of telephones remind you that your friends are here. Your husband sits in silent tilt, tolerant of chatting rites, uncomfortable with torture chambers medicine can wheel you back and forth across.