more to give

on good days
air would leave her lungs
accompanied by a name of someone we didn’t know
or a place she never visited
other days she didn’t say much at all
or asked if we went to prom together
all those years ago
and sometimes we’d tell her we did
because we missed the creases
in her cheeks
that were mostly bone now
and a ferris wheel of thinning veins
but within the carrion of indeterminable flesh and tapioca and hospital garments
and mistaken memories
or abandoned dreams
there was still bounty to harvest
still things to take
and so she knitted
under the weight of eager eyes
and stench of unhealing wounds
and we hoped that this one would mean something different
or save us from her fate
and so we sank into yellowing tiles
with our anchor or empty adoration
and called her our savior
in a crucifix memorial
celebrating daytime television