Her face
doesn’t look like mum’s—
        painted, puffed,
pumped with chemicals.
        I feel swindled. Even
her beloved linen dress, her backless leather
shoes look at odds with this mother
        lying here oblivious to my tears.

        A small broken bone
pokes from the back of her neck—
I think to complain. Her wedding ring on
her still finger, hands strangely familiar.
Hands that busied too often, slid
       her voice into her lap.
That sorted pills, knocked cups off
             precarious ledges. I want

her hands to touch me—even
if in one of her off guard moments
when she would yield
        to a hug, feather pat my back.
In this vacuum of a room, I want to breathe
        a life in that coffin bed
             these strangers
                             arranged.