Take the antibodies and make
them your own. Sweat it,
lose the sting that clings to your lips,
smells of death and sick.
Wear the white gown that should make
you an angel. But I don’t know
many angels kept alive with tubes
and needles and inhalers
that make you smoke like a dragon
instead of breathe.
You could be a part of the bed,
a pattern left behind. My hand
is warm against yours, and I try
to send my warmth through
you. To make you wake up
so we can laugh on the beaches again,
when I tug on the strings
of your bikini top. Your smile,
a smile that splits sorrow and sends
it cascading into the ocean, pulled
by the tide that washes rocks
into sand. We erode together
to become tiny grains.
A nurse walks in to inject
more medicine to the drip. Her feet
step with the drop. Slow, plodding,
and sad. Like her smile at me,
when she says it will be alright.