I don’t know what got into us, but thank god Mama wasn’t there
to see us laugh in the face of death and dare the old man to
strike us dead. That laugh is a compass I wear in my hair
so I can find you again in the dark, and when I do our hearts
clink back together and I’m a whole sister again. Just think
you said. Imagine this: My body is giving up every scrap of extra
just to keep me alive so we can bother about my death and plan to
charge this credit card up to my baggy butt. But—no buts.
You cannot save me. You can only help me go. Oh, no.
Walk it off, you said. You’re not the one dying. It’s my turn.
Your chemo skin swirled around you like moths, and your bald
face split into a laugh like lava, like a hot spring bubbling upward,
like a token you passed to me, like you never laughed in your life.
Go over to the dverse pub and read the words and words and words.