In Good Care by Sabrina Guo* (16, New York)

Every time I call Mother, I envision flashes
of the garbage bag she wears 
tied around her neck,
how it crinkles each time
she brushes against
the floors of Langone. 

She tries to catch
a wink of sleep each night. 

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She says it is her duty
to help her patients, to serve.
No matter how much I beg her
to be selfish, just this once,
she always says: They need
me. Yeri, stay inside 
with your father. Stay

inside. One night, I throw my phone
at a porcelain vase in the kitchen.
As the porcelain blossoms, still
it reflects her face, the creases
from her goggles scattered
in the shards across the marble.

Sometimes, she talks
about her patients.

One night, she says a woman is
bedridden,
white as paper, at peace.

I couldn’t count
the IVs, Mother says, but she is 
in good care. She will
get better. I slept well that night.

Of her complexion, Mother says
it gets better and better, until
the pink is back in her lips, the shine 
returns to her grayed hair.

Of their interlocked hands, Mother’s soft
hands—she says they are the same
ones that pressed into my forehead
when, as a child, I was sick. I have 
the urge to break them apart 
in memory, to tell Mother to stay 
inside, to help me try to 
piece together that broken vase.