Masque of Death

Sunday hike along the canyon, but not the morning
you returned from your journey interrupted,
came back and rearranged my apartment. I let you do it—

the mahogany table, a shared relic gone to Craigslist,
dish dryer replaced with something upright and useless,
lined the pantry with elderberry, ginger root, and hibiscus powders
practicing to become a wise woman of the kitchen.

Part of me fears you are stealing the car keys to my life—
that I will walk circles around my television and cup of coffee— 
home bound as you text on your phone and disappear for days, weeks.
I see myself incontinent, helpless, shuttered in one of those nursing homes
where you feed me apple juice through a paper straw.

I know none of this is true. I hope to survive the virus
that has marked our homes with a masque of death,
but fear for you, the one who discovered your father
stretched out in bed, his fingers and toes, nightshade blue. 

You were the one who visited me in the hospital before the country knew 
about ventilators, and hid with me while the cats ran under the porch. 
I hear leaf-blowers from across the street whining endlessly,
wish I had a magic wand to break this spell, this curse.
Neither of us are little girls. Whatever I have, I give to you.