down to the smell in the soon dead air

My father’s hands now shake too violently
to hold a teacup. My failure was not seeing
deterioration as inevitability, and this shock
is widely applicable.
For example my mother pulled what used to be
a beaded dress from a plastic grocery bag.
Everything behind the sequins fell to blue dust
over and through her splayed open fingers. In
the kitchen in the morning, open jars grew mold
and the ones that didn’t were animal fat. I
suspect my urge to say what they were like is
shame dressed up as poetry. I looked for
whatever was blocking the light. I took a mug
from the cabinet and found a plastic bottle
of soap the color
of blue gatorade, a dishcloth that released
marrow-colored not-quite-liquid, washed my
hands. Picked up the mug again, ran soapy
fingers over the rim, slipped a palm, facedown,
even pressure, soft against the inside walls (ten
years ago I googled how to masturbate
female/from the bed I had slept in the night
before the bed where I spent every holiday
break, even when/it didn’t fit anywhere but up
against/the side of the couch, even though/the
springs are rusted through, even knowing I/will
wake  unable/to find the moon). The seams in
the glass held on / to what used to be coffee. I
felt my way under until it came loose and made
its way to surface, washed my hands, gripped the
edge of the counter, bowed my head as in
reverence or exhaustion. Found a t-shirt in the
dryer, wiped the water from the glass, an act of
love, washed my hands. In a chair & watching
me, my mother said you haven’t been this little
since you were a child.