We stand around her bed, like weeds
rooted and swaying in place to the motion of her breaths.
“You have her hands,” is what I say
after close examination. Because she does,
and somehow it becomes the most important detail.
It’s a pointless sentiment, already dissipated
and forgotten. But my words are worth more
when I’m alone, anyway. So I wait
for evenings to sound out the syllables in her name,
one in each accent, so I never forget. And I’m selfish,
but that’s nothing new, as I work hard to draw
her consciousness closer to the surface of her skin,
though sometimes, even on the best of days,
the nighttime brings nothing.