I hand my mother her fiftieth Jello cup of the week& she tells me I should write a poem about Jello.She knows that I will not,knows I do not respond to instructionsfrom anyone about what poems I should write,not even my own instructions most days.When I thought she was dyingI promise my brain was a no-poetry zone.It was also a no-feelings zone.I have an advanced degree incompartmentalization,can juggle all means of apocalypsewith the padlocks firmly in place.I swear I have never started writinga poem in the middle of a kiss or a crisis,promise that I always said, just a second!when I heard the poem knocking.But I need to confessthat once it became clearthis particular moment was not her last,the poem began jiggling the doorknob,pushing its way in on the taxiride home from my nightshift,my breath still ripe with hospital.My mother asks for Jello, says, Jello is my friend,says, You need            write poem            about Jello.One time years agowhen I was frustrated with a poem, my mothertold me, Missy. Poems are like children.If you are patient & listen, they show youwho they want to be.I open the Jello for my mother.She gives me my instructions.My mother opens the poem for me.The poem gives me my instructions.The poem says, Be honest.This is where you puteverything you wish you could wrap your arms around—encircled with a ribbon of language,neatly-packaged, handed off.Nice poem you got there.Would be a shame if death was inevitable &you couldn’t fit your arms around it.Would be a shame if you only knew one coping mechanism.Tell God that my mothercannot possibly be back in the hospitalbecause I already finished the poemin which she survives.