My hands are here now
holding yours. I read to you
stories in poorly accented German.
How can you be so small and still live?
Who grew these metastases?
The painkiller is stored in a locked box
and it has become you- your raison d’être
that does not kill pain.
It just makes it harder for you to cry out;
about the blood in your breath
about the ache in the bones
about the regret for a child
that you were, and that I was,
a mantra of sorrow that circles
around itself, like the sound of
snow on the road. Or how our
hands make us into a loop.