MY ARM HURTS
When one of them dies you realize
Parents are like limbs:
They don’t stop hurting amputated.
Moaning theatrically to tell the world
How long suffering she has been,
The one who hasn’t died draws up
At the threshold to her chamber,
One hand on the peeling door frame
Apparently to keep standing.
I can only see the back of her
As I go on pacing the hall.