My mother’s hands rest on green,
the color of a blanket
I place across her lap,
the one she would use
while watching t.v.
the one she clutches as
we watch for the ambulance
while the night grows black.
My feet step on black,
the color of rubber mats
placed at a hospital door
to soften the entrance
of bodies hurrying
past white lights shining
“Emergency”.
I don’t stop for white
nor rest by it.
I walk until there are
no colors left
except black –
the sound of the
doctor sitting next to me
the night my mother died.
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