The Wardrobe’s Best Dressed: I’ll Buy You a Bird Instead by Natalie Easton

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Things We Did After Your Death

I couldn’t bear your naked body, the one that made you
cry as if for pleasure. In the moment I didn’t know

my reasons why, only my discomfort. You peered at me
from the loose skin of starvation, like a girl flowing

from the folds of her mother’s discarded dress.
You wanted the chair, so I claimed your hospital bed.

I lifted your weight despite my back and later never
felt the pain, but I couldn’t wipe you after the bathroom,

or soap over the scar on your chest. In your illness
you were too new and innocent. I kept completely still

when your breath slowed to a lullaby pace; I couldn’t
shake the idea that an irate stranger crawled

beneath the cradle, possessed of your memories.
But I knew you would say, “Don’t let me go to the grave

dirty.” So after you died, while my stepfather turned away
and wailed, I took a damp rag and wiped your lips.

However much beer that mouth drank, however many times
it humorously cussed, or said “I love you,” however many

times it kissed a pet or chided a husband, it had closed
and was being touched for the final time by me.

For all I knew you felt it still, just as you heard me say
it was okay to take your last breath, and you agreed.

By this point the cat had disappeared,
and would not be seen for days.

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