My mother’s nerves are shot—

a nerve is a shot. A shot

is an arch. My mother is an archer.

The archer breaks the dead branch dead.

Dead branches rot. Rot from the bark.

My mother’s nerves bark: shot

through loss. Death peels her nerves.

Death is an archer. Death shoots rot:

just misses her. I see her tremble.

Moss greens her bark. Greens where she

trembles. Where there was death, fruit grows.

The fruits of death. Fruits moss the branches

through the blinds where she trembles still.