It is not our usual nurse who greets my mother
with the news that she can smell her wound
from the front door. My mother raises her brow
in admonishment that I have kept this secret.
She always worried about smelling like an old
woman, making me promise I would take care,
even if she dozed into oblivion, she would smell
of jasmine. The bandages unwrapped reveal the cause:
her leg encrusted with a slough so thick it grips
her skin, encircling her calf, turning to eschar
as the tissue blackens, oozing into the water bowl.
I pour away the vessel’s tainted contents, noting
the tissued, curling skin. Look up, I say, when
legs are mummified, not wanting her to check.
She can’t resist. And I must grow a crust and kill
customary aversion; to help her bear the indignity
of her body’s dolorous failing; must offer hope, even
while noticing a spot of slough besmirch her other leg.
When the nurse is gone, and bandages gleam white,
I fetch her Florentyna and supervise her spraying.
