The
mother keeps the TV burning
in
the corner of the living room.
The
heat felt through our clothes
colors
our skin a deeper shade of blood.
We
are told to contribute something
to
the fire. A gummy bear, a shoe.
Everything
we have we’ll one day lose
says
Mother. We roast marshmallows by the light
the
screen shines on us. We make Mother
a
marshmallow necklace from the last ones
we
have left. She will treasure this necklace
she
tells us, stuffing it into a drawer. The TV
singes
our foreheads with the world’s news.
I
prefer the stories about marshmallows
to
the stories about amputees.
The
mother tries to keep us warm
inside
her fur-lined coat. I wedge my arm
into
the socket of her polyester sleeve
and
feel, under my skin, how cold she is.
Mother
informs us ice has been forming
inside
her bones, her body no longer
responds
to the heat. She instructs us to keep
ourselves
safe from the cold. To hold on
with
our hands, to her bones. To remember
that
she will always, in our bones, remain
our
mother. We have no choice in this world.
