Begin with the palpable, the real —

clothespin, nickel, and dime — those three

saints of the sickroom, each having its own

indisputable function — to loosen or tighten

the difficult slots, to admit or hold back

the various liquids. The clothespin allowed

whatever the mouth took in to remain

a little longer. The nickel turned

the screw, released the solution

of electrolytes. The dime unlocked

the morphine. Inadequate hospice,

inadequate daughter and nurse. Not so

these objects: not one of them failed

to perform its task. The final things

she asked for and wanted

at her side: infallible brush, comb, and mirror,

ordinary handkerchief, the book

she was reading — its spine cut in half,

possible to hold, possible to turn

its pages without help — and the Bible

she had me look for upstairs,

the one it took me three trips to find,

smallest of all the Bibles in that house.

Faithful to the end: a spoon, a glass with a straw,

and a small dropper. Who among us

is as reliable as these — as the brush

now on its back in our closet with the sheets? Please,

don’t tell me what objects lack. Don’t tell me

what has a soul and what doesn’t,

what lasts and confounds. This brush —

strands of her hair in its bristles.

Flexible Ghost

Sahuayo: butchery, slaughterhouse