DITES-MOI

I sing softly as I caress your hair,
which has grown improbably
long and white—
talisman strands of silk. Later
I will find them on your
sweaters as I fold them into
bags. Under your sink as I box
your toiletries. On my nightclothes.
My slippers.

Your lips are so dry.
I fill the morphine dropper
again and coax out little pearls of
water. The hospice nurses
are at a scarce pandemic distance—
but I am here, fumbling with
this smattering of palliative
gems they left before receding
into frozen Facetimes. You
hold my eyes as you bite down
on the dropper. It takes me days
to realize your gaze was a caress.

You carry me cupped against you.
It would have been the apartment
in East Brunswick I know only
from faded photos, before we
moved to Highland Park. The
vibration of your voice stills me
against your chest as you pace the
length of the house, humming the
lullaby from South Pacific, soft
against my fontanelle.

Your fulgent eyes—sun
through a stained glass saint—
are fixed. I trace the path with
my own eyes and see only
the half-cracked door. I think that
mom must be ready for you now.
I cannot see her, but your eyes rest
there. Where I think she is.

I am afraid of what will escape
if I sing the final notes you sang
to me, trilling on vous m’aimez—
I love you. There is only the bus
down the street, the drip
in the bathroom sink, Rosie's
paw pads tapping the wood floor.
I cannot exhale.