DISCONNECTED

as an old arthritic woman
in a Minneapolis nursing home
nearly blind
imprisoned by your wheel chair
fearful of death
you would call me in Cincinnati
and end our halting conversation with
"I love you Barbie"

sometimes I could answer
"I love you too Mother"
I could hear myself as in a play
trapped, panicked, coerced again

sometimes I couldn't say the words
it was too late

you had grown
humble enough
scared enough
big enough
to say the words and maybe mean them
I had not

then you died
and I sat in your room
with the afghan I made covering you
and cried for what I couldn't say