My mother holds two bags like purses:
opiates in one, liquid nutrition
running through the other.
We make our way
through the waiting room
to her last appointment.
The other women look afraid
of us, the nearness of death
something they can sense.
My mother’s doctor looks
her over—looks at me, looks
at my dad, who looks away.
“Skinny Minnie,” the oncologist says.
He says other things, too. Don’t worry—
I’m saving those for a rainy day.
She falls asleep, snoring gently
as we pass the beach
on the drive home.
