She still remembers me, she strokes my face.
She made me in her body’s deepest place

and fed me from herself. I was her moon.
I comb her hair and feed her with a spoon

and dress her in clean clothes. She understands;
she pats her empty purse with eager hands

and walks about the grounds with me. She knows
but cannot always say this is a rose.

The words she taught me are the shapes I see:
because she spoke the sun, it came to be;

she called me out of nothing and I came.
Will I still be when she forgets my name?