wheelchair, pulled close to the kitchen table, locked
against her feet/hands/pushing/pulling
in the unceasing dance of brain disconnect
his measured voice
I think you’re hungry
Isn’t this good?
her apron, cut from a plastic tablecloth
bright with topsy-turvy flowers,
covers her nightgown, neck to knees
he sits across from her, close
in his new-found patience, bends in
to spoon today’s coarse-ground mix
potatoes/gravy/beans/beef
into her reluctant mouth
she chews slower, eyes begin to close
One more bite?
Please open your mouth
he slips soft into their first language—
Czy wiesz kim jestem?
Do you know who I am?
softer
Czy ty jesteś moją matką?
Are you my mother?
softest
Jestem wciąż wasz mały chłopiec?
Am I still your little boy?
