1.

If you could, you would spin me

a sweater

of your hair.

2.

Time takes away the rest of you but leaves me
your eyes. Keep them as they press
into my hand, closing my fingers over.

You never know where your glasses are.
Instead, you ask me to decipher
the newspaper gray in the morning

as you sew up the new rip in my jacket.

3.

Hands peel of its creases, a snow of skin.

wear gloves when cleaning

stress worsens eczema

You can't help leaving little bits of you

on the sheets you help me pack. I find them,

two days and an ocean later.

4.

Molt

out of your clothes, mother,

your stockings

are a very long pair

of dried legs on the floor.

5.

I say goodnight mom,

when I mean you have gotten

so small,

my arms are too long

for holding you now.

6.

Night, years

from now, I will have

forced you out

of your skin

and claimed it as mine.