Instructions for My Mother

On the Eve of Her 14th Chemotherapy Treatment

When the alarm sounds tomorrow, do not hesitate;
throw off your covers. My heavy duvet can be
a straight jacket, like the one Hamlet's Ophelia wears.
This week, in class, we watched her--
arms crossed and strapped behind her back
in a white suit, like the ones
they restrained psychotics
at places like Brown's--sob
and sing. She sobbed and sung. She asked
to be unbuckled; she was
unbuckled.

Pick up your pearls, the
freshwater store-boughts. When
your eyes went wide with
MRI lights (who knew
they could blind
more than sunlight);
when you looked like 
you were looking at
the blackhole where
that sun was known to hang
for those looking at
the one looking at
the sunhole--

we strung them, the pearls, on elastic fishline
between pink seed beads and sandstones.

These bracelets--
first bits of pink.
These pearls--
first in a long string--
of small decisions--
to--

Get up.