The nursing home smelled like ****
considerately covered with disinfectant.
“Thank god for small mercies”, I thought,
as I walked towards the one I love
who can no longer speak my name.
She had grown whiskers, when did that happen?
And the corner of her eyes were filled with decay.
Some things were the same, though,
Like the way she cried when I hugged her.
Like the way her hair smells-
like protection,
like childhood.

It is very difficult to converse with some one who can barely speak.
I pattered on about my boyfriend, and she asked,
“Jewish?”
I reply, “No Bubbe, he’s not.”
Her eyes fell, and how can I reveal myself to her?
That I lost nothing when I found that I didn’t believe?
Instead I smile and say, “maybe someday Bubbe.”
But she is not fooled, and my smile becomes plaster.
I stop filling the silence.

There is a woman screaming in the hall.
Not screaming exactly, but yelping
like a fox caught in a trap.
Thin, helpless cries so full of fear and pain
that I could reach up and feel her loss ripping the air.    
“She sounds like I feel”, I thought.
But then again, how must she feel?
I’m here for half an hour,
she’s here until death.
And I text my boyfriend, I tell him,
if you’re still around when we're old,
before you let them put me in a place like this,
put a bag over my head,
and slit my wrists.