You used to text me about my deceased mother, on that anniversary. Like I had not noticed; Like I needed reminding, Because, I guess, you felt I was not Sufficiently sad, Or that I understood only too obtuse the fragility of life, How it slews and skeins unpredictably sometimes into fear, or that you also had a claim on her love. You did. And you remembered for me. How nice. Harsh? Yes. Right. Maybe. I bathed her as she cried without her breasts, just a clean swipe across her pale, boney chest. The wheel coming close around, Like it did for you. So when you emerged From air-lock isolation, I, too, caught my breath, Thinking you really had dodged a bullet. It is a kind of miracle, right? Don’t you think the sky is a special blue?