my mother is bent low against the counter,
her face a familiar rictus of fear:
lips pressed together, a deep line in her forehead,
one hand clutching the wall as the other holds the phone;
it is the same expression on her face as she peers through my door,
she examines my face, searching for the trigger;
has she lost me, am i so far gone --
and i lean forward, instinctively,
my book slips off my lap, my eyes on its cover,
listening for the next catastrophe:
she says, "honey," into the phone,
chewing on her lip, she says,
"have you fed the cat," she says,
her lips invisible, "did you,
his food, have you --"
brief relaxation, she turns to me:
it's ok, the cat has been fed,
and you are ok: the crisis is over.
her slight swaying smile,
still searching my face,
the cat has been fed --
the rictus, the fear --
and you are not here,
not here, not here.