Senescent and wasting, her breath rakes across hospital linen.
Tonight, a whispered invitation floats toward her hospital bed: the ferryman has saved her a seat on the prow and they shall set sail by dawn. Her hair will once more fly in the breeze.
She cut off her breasts but refused chemotherapy.
Her children are pulled ever to her bosom,
faces pressed relentlessly into bitter scars,
Under a sheet, she is still.