A speculation on the power of the vial
In her hands – would it have occurred -
A dark thought brimming at the surface -
No – we'd like to think not – the smell of ether
And lavender – she found herself staring at it,
The cool glass on the pads of her fingers -
The devil climbed into her eyes -
Like a ghost rose out of her setee -
Mixing a few drops into the warm
Milk on the tray, “Mother?”
An echo in the dark of the house -
The ruffles of her dress
Following her like feathers -
Her could hands gripping the tray -
She could barely speak -
The fever hand’t broken for days
A pile of fallow, yellow flesh -
Daughter come to her side of the bed,
Dabbing the sweat on her brow with a rag,
“Here, drink this,”
The milk barely going down
Before mother batted her away
And fell back into an exhausted
Slumber.
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