I would advise my mother the
same if the blood fell short of her
toes, the anesthesia doctor tells.
The useless leg, staining rouge, sits in
the crook of my arm. I brace it,
the knee’s right angle corners my
elbow in my hip
which bruises later.
She cannot endure intubation
from the weakness in her beat,
eyeliner straight-edged below
a cloudy clean cap. We search
at her ischium
with numbing sticks, rooting
to quiet the sharpness of nerves.
My gut crumples
with her face.
I’ll make you a nice wooden one,
her husband catches their tears
on his big thumb.