Mom is dying outside of concrete

buildings and fragile glass windows.

With just a few steps, I can glance down bright, fluorescent hallways;

but her room is poorly lit and damp --

like a jungle’s wildflower trapped

under a canopy of trees -- she lies

on her hospital bed, fighting for any ounce

of sunlight.

Mom is dying outside of broken

promises and hollow hope.

The lack of machines stamps

her fate as decided; sterile

like the IV pump in the far corner,

collecting dust, lacking any purpose

but to laugh at the belief

            that she tried.

Mom is dying at the hands of Him,

my grandmother says;

but she can’t understand a word

that falls from my quivering lips --

much less a death sentence

quickly whispered in her ear

by her baby boy.