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Poetry: Death of a parent

Seventy-three, unable
To talk, to walk
Understand a son, a man
Cradling her naked body
On his lap, in a shower
Cleansing old folds
Of skin with soft
Soapy touches, rinsing her
With his tears.

Seventy-three, refusing
To eat, to live
Would God understand
Will doctors agree
She wants to go
We've always done
What mother says.

Seventy-three, no more
Breath, no more beat
Daughter-in-law bathes
Frail, still warm body
That last time
While grandchildren run
In and out
Reaching, patting
Still warm remains.

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