In the room <br />behind the door half closed <br />the stench taking up the corridor <br /> <br />Mabel Mama bleeds onto the sheet <br />and cries about her daughter, <br />the one that 'got busted for crack' <br /> <br />She sits up, two bandaged legs <br />some greasy salve <br />for the open sores on her back <br />and I hang the nightly IV med, <br />sure to make her vomit <br /> <br />I am dreaming for her <br />and we are sitting in a <br />meadow, her grandchildren <br />loving her hands and feet, her <br />daughter handing us bouquets, and <br />laughter echoing down open spaces <br />instead of her moans and cries <br /> <br />A horse drawn carriage brings <br />Mabel Mama to her Savannah mansion, <br />a door open to all her art deco rooms, <br />and she is breathing in the fresh air <br />of her lost disease. <br /> <br />And as I shut the light over her bed <br />and half-close the door to her room, <br />Mabel Mama whispers a thank you.<br /><br />Louise Marie DelSanto<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/mabel-momma/
