Carol

At first I’d step into that room, eyes
down, braced as if something were
coiled beneath her bed. But she would
without fail slide her mottled
arm of bone from under the sheets
to find my hand. I’d fold her claw –
still warm – in both my mitts and hold it
till I felt her flutter-pulse;
then I’d start to breathe again.

One day I smelled what huddled under 
that bed: my poorest frightened self.
I lifted it, shaking, almost weightless, 
into my lap and stroked its cool –
There now, dying looks like this.
Today I’m at her shoulder, to follow
the jagged breaths where they go,
surprised – not that I can love her,
but that I might love myself.