on his stomach, washes his face, his hands,
gently rolls him to one side, switches
the television to Bugs Bunny or Roadrunner.

For twenty years now, not one bedsore,
not one bruise upon his flexed and rigid limbs —
his mouth and eyes awry, brain broken

by a difficult birth, years ago, in Samoa.
Now she watches from a wing-back chair
as he greets his visitors with a series of grunts.

Younger cousins play tetherball
in the back yard. One of them rushes in to hold
a flashlight as the nurse and I try to stretch

their uncle’s bed-bound arm to draw blood.
He groans, rolls his head from side to side,
both eyes flickering up to his forehead.

The mother scratches his scalp, pats
his cheek and he calms. She says she can always
tell what he needs, and I believe her.