At the Rest Stop, Fully Gloved, She Calls Me Mommy

Mercy descends from grey drapes  
of rain on the horizon. She enters  
 
the shrine 'For Disabled Only,' 
doesn't come out for ages. Wind  
 
makes my hat into a bird, I taste  
metal and salt in the air. Here's to  
 
the Goddess of Soap and Water, 
to gloves and the imaginary safety  
 
we don. I call out, please keep your  
your gloves on and unlock the door  
 
and a man gives me a look. She  
emerges, relieved and smiling. She is  
 
blooming into the season of death, just as  
some have rehung Christmas stars to scare off  
 
the plague. She hands me her wrist  
and I pull one glove off cleanly. Then  
 
with that just bared hand, she 
fingers the other, still gloved,  
 
all the threat and germ of it, touches it  
like she did each couch and corner of her  
 
left home, her cinnamon jar, her old blue  
chair. Rest stop trucks groan and puff in unison.  
 
There is no grace to this attempt  
at duty. I mother her the best I can.  
 
She elevates her swollen feet 
in the backseat of the car.