Caretaker

She needs to eat. She needs
to keep something warm in
her stomach. I reheat rice on the stove,
some cabbage and smoked salmon
and bring it to her in bed.
Like a widow, she chews the end
of a bone already buried. Ignores
the plate. I make her sit up anyways
adjust just before she spits
her last meal into my hands. Warm,
half-digested ghost.

Downstairs in the kitchen
I’ll eat from this plate, the white grains
cold and dead, pinched in my fingers’
tight grip, raised to a mouth
emptied—already open.
And I’ll try to—no, I will,
I’ll keep it down.

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“How do we help those we love live longer? What gestures shape our labor, our devotion? I wrote this poem last summer, inspired by The Collected Poems of Ai that I was reading at the time; the dramatic monologue gave me an entry into these questions, which were urgent for me personally that summer and are urgent still, as we do (or do not) don masks, spread out, speak out, and organize to take care of each other (or not) through the pain of these pandemics.”
—Charleen McClure

Black Lives Matter Anthology