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Jane M. Downs<br />
Her heart holds ruin. Her bracelets cut into her wrists, the blue veins there. Piano keys<br />
under their wooden hood. <strong>The</strong> minutes of her life notes of a fugue. She turns from the<br />
sun’s glare.<br />
17<br />
Mother kneels at my bedside, her hand hesitant above me. Her bracelet slips over the small<br />
bones of her wrist. Charms polished, at rest. One cold against my forehead, another a pinprick<br />
on my cheek. If we could stay here forever.<br />
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