Wound

         
The news arrived          
a needle in the arm        
you foresaw the pinch        
but still you winced        
in pain          
         
And blood was drawn        
along with the knowledge        
your veins were failing          
and your body decaying        
and still        
         
You did as instructed:        
You pricked your finger        
on the steel thorn.          
         
Today was the first day        
You stabbed yourself        
with an injection        
of what you need        
to live . . .        
         
It's not that I'm squeamish.             
I just couldn't watch.      
I guess it's because you're my mom.          
         
The patient      
waiting for results.  
   
I too am powerless.      
       
All I can do        
is stare      
at that little vial      
in your pin-pricked hands        
       
as I consume        
an unpleasant mixture      
of awe and disgust      
       
knowing its content      
contains your Fate.