Each morning the damp lips of her mother
whisper, Remember me. Remember me.
The nurses hover. Her husband hovers, all of them
sad as the thin noise electricity makes in the white,
white room they take her to. The blue line of
everything in her life runs backward:
the color of her bedroom, the smooth scent of cedar
in closets, her husband's name, the soft things
he whispers in sleep--all sucked wildly through wires.
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