Small Comfort

i.
The crinkling hands, veins as sinuey
as the tubes attached to arms—
these remain real. I cannot hear the voice,
anymore, but remember the way
sidewalk-cracking lips turned upward
when she whispered Tony. Do not tell me

I do not understand because memory
tastes of lemons and sweat. I remember
the gun taped to the inside drawer
of the nightstand and how those hands

couldn't have clasped the trigger.
She would have wrapped me in the veil
of her old self. Instead, she wished
that my own lips would someday
whisper your name.

ii.
As time progresses, people do not
grow healthier. Eventually, what we know
deteriorates. This is not

the right sentiment for a broken man
tasting dumplings and grease. If I could,

I would have said do not make a ghost
out of the still breathing. They are shrouds soon enough.