.

i don't think i'll ever forget the way you smelled. like something rotting.
which was familiar. i smelled it every year
on butchering days. where dad would gut chickens
and turkeys and ducks w/ his exacto, and pull
intestines out in long purple clumps
of wound-up tubing. their bodies reduced to machinery.

your body reduced to machinery. blinks
of sound
that dizzied me in your hospital room. white walls. heartbeat
monitors. and you pale. with your veins extended
to ivs. transparent plastic tubing. & your words lost
to an oxygen mask
fitted over your lips
which were pale and cracked.

when you moved you moved in pain
like someone split your skin
from throat to sternum to hipbones
and pushed their hands
inside& pulled

and i'll always remember how you smelled
for weeks like you were already dead.