My Mother’s Nerves Are Shot

a nerve is a shot. A shot
is an arch. My mother is an archer.
The archer breaks the dead branch dead.
Dead branches rot. Rot from the bark.
My mother’s nerves bark: shot
through loss. Death peels her nerves.
Death is an archer. Death shoots rot:
just misses her. I see her tremble.
Moss greens her bark. Greens where she
trembles. Where there was death, fruit grows.
The fruits of death. Fruits moss the branches
through the blinds where she trembles still.