she changes your gown from the shoulder instead

of the neck the window gives the same field

it gave yesterday your fingers are cold she told the orderly this morning

she had had worst patients meaning women who

screamed you haven’t screamed last night you wrote

on the wax paper from the dinner tray she ties the second bow

at your back & smooths the cotton down / down / down

your shoulder blades both palms flat, warm the way you used to press

pie dough at seventeen the pink summer your ma said a girl who feeds

an entire room

will never be alone.

you left the roast on the stove she asks are you warm enough

yes, you want to scream she bends to collect

the old gown from the wooden floor and doesn’t spare a glance

at what you’ve written

on the wax paper.