My mother recited the ventricles of the heart,
anatomy learned in undergrad biology
sitting in her wheelchair—
lay alone all those nights
room shared with a screaming woman
imposed structure not suitable.
How is my own survival now different than hers
also at the mercy of those unsuited to their professions
like coyotes they stumble in a stink
guiding their charges across a desert.
In the nursing home, her diaper waiting half an hour for the
R.A.
where chair, bed, lights, even air flow were determined,
TV cocked at an angle for a woman
who would never have one in her own bedroom,
who would hum to the classical station.
Her brain exploded,
ribbon torn—
and my mother, who loved form—
how could she form words,
electrical impulses bleating
in what was left of her brain.
Yet letters on a page, her handwriting was almost perfect
years of calligraphy instilled.
Survival is studied by scientists
but goes beyond adjustment, speed,
and adrenaline,
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