Watching My Mother Sleep

Hospitals at night
are such deceptive places
and as I watch her sleep
in this strange green light
she looks so young.

And as she sleeps
her right hand opens and closes
as though she is reaching for
something that isn't there.

At her side the machine
is keeping track of her breathing
the way the old grandfather clock
kept track of time.

She told me once that
when I was born she could
feel my heartbeat leaving her
and for a moment there was
such a terible emptiness inside

she said she knew what
it must feel like to die.
Why is it one of us is always
leaving or just coming back
to say good-bye?

Her sleep now is so quiet
it's deceiving and between
each breath is such an emptiness
that every time I wonder
if she has died

or is this the emptiness
of my birth she's remembering
or could it be that I'm
remembering my own:

waking to find my mother
in her twilight sleep
weeping because I'm gone.