The last days of my mother’s life,
when bones were almost all
that was left of mom

in this world, I kissed her

on the forehead and called
her “sweetie” each time
I put her to bed, kissed her

near the widow’s peak where hair
and skin met like the far line
between earth and sky,

her thinning skin stretched
tight over a hard plane
of bone, her downy hair

as soft as clouds seem, framing
the vacant space
where crows caw and fly,

call and fly.