The Human Genre Project

When I had much to do with my mother

she was unable to distance herself
from me anymore,
and I, from her.

Then she needed me without knowing, possibly without caring,
and I needed to be needed, and I knew how to care
for her in her Alzheimer’s state of being;

that before what came to pass: distance between my daughter and I
— a cement road —
its asphalt so wanting the wear of a path well travelled.

And if she feels the weight of want, I don’t know.
She’s not yet cared
to tell me, and I’ve not yet dared to ask.

Ruth Sabath Rosenthal