There’s a poem I tried to write about bathing you the last day you were alive. On one of our drives home: I want to die without shame. You didn’t elaborate. I described standing across from a stranger paid to do this work, her presence anchoring me in the task with you between us. From this distance I can use the word task. Your pain the astrologer said A gift for others A mixing bowl filled with warm water we dipped washcloths into before wringing them out rested between your legs.
