If you are lucky in this life, 

you will get to help your enemy 

the way I got to help my mother

when she was weakened past the point of saying no.



Into the big enamel tub 

half-filled with water 

which I had made just right, 

I lowered the childish skeleton 

she had become.



Her eyelids fluttered as I soaped and rinsed 

her belly and her chest, 

the sorry ruin of her flanks 

and the frayed gray cloud 

between her legs.



Some nights, sitting by her bed 

book open in my lap 

while I listened to the air

move thickly in and out of her dark lungs, 

my mind filled up with praise 

as lush as music,



amazed at the symmetry and luck 

that would offer me the chance to pay 

my heavy debt of punishment and love 

with love and punishment.



And once I held her dripping wet 

in the uncomfortable air 

between the wheelchair and the tub, 

until she begged me like a child



to stop, 

an act of cruelty which we both understood

was the ancient irresistible rejoicing 

of power over weakness.



If you are lucky in this life, 

you will get to raise the spoon 

of pristine, frosty ice cream 

to the trusting creature mouth 

of your old enemy



because the tastebuds at least are not broken 

because there is a bond between you 

and sweet is sweet in any language.