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Smother
for B.K.S.
I'm crushed
by the prickly scent
her cancer leaves,
brushes against my nose,
my face,
raises the hairs
on my neck,
every pore,
bathes me
in rusty dread,
threatens to suffocate,
I choke down
the pain
that's leveled
her to
this charcoal-sealed
apartment
behind dumpsters
and recrimination,
begins to burn
just beneath
my lucidity,
boils all sense
save
guilt and cleaning house
until I take a breath,
place guilt and broom
back in the closet,
and sit with
her
and her cancer,
take pleasure in
coffee and hope.
