Aaron and I
have been sleeping
or trying to in separate
twin beds
in his childhood room
for months We hide
wine red
and white between my bed
and the wall Hama-san
does not like us drinking
We wake up
before six to hear
the last rattles
of her breath
Great egrets squawk
on their way
from the treetops
to the drying creek Soon
there will be nothing
in Hama-san’s bed
but the eighty-pound shell
of her body
Before noon
the hospice nurse
will bathe
comb and dress her
Mortuary men
will place her
in a zippered bag
Tonight we will not
help her to the bathroom
The lumps on her torso
will not itch
