In demurral delirium
soft bleached sheets,
a bed with metal rails
a button pressed
adjustes the slopes
of my numb shape.
How many days
of tossing
are in my wild hair?
She comes in
through the open door
cool hands on my head-
her little girl again.
She brushes my hair
braids my hair
gentle soothing
healing hands.
I fall asleep,
wake to the nurse
noticing neat braids
my brushed hair:
I'm human again.
The childish style
sculpted by
my mother's hands
has brought forth
a trace of the woman
I was last week.
October 1989 Southern Rose Review
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