In a loosely gathered knot,
cousins from different airports
arrive at her bedside, morphine placed
beneath her tongue, a liquid sacrament.
Friends want her to recognize them,
to repeat names, to remember
how they used to spend summers together with the kids.
In one moment she catches fire, the next, forgets.
The children don’t know what to say,
hold up a birdcage,
a red mug of coffee to her lips,
try to entice her back to breakfast
as though she were a child,
and the coffee, candy,
which she doesn’t take.
When she sleeps, she dreams
of her husband on the beach,
near a lake where they swam
in the cold water of the Catskills.
Her visiting hours keep getting longer.
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