The end of something

Almost a year from
backache that wasn’t 
to a downstairs iron bed 
my mother chooses 


to see me, but not to speak,
within a week refuses to see,
disappearing into books
and crosswords


argues fiercely with my father,
holds tight to my sister
and is cared for with kindness
and tact by men and women


who tend to the most 
intimate of acts
Each time I come she turns aside
hiding in plain sight 


for reasons of her own
then dies one night without me
because I could not
and because I would not 


but does not die alone