There is no death between these hands
Or: Maria. A poem. — 51, this woman lying under the same weighted blanket as me looks younger, or just about her age. Cook at a small café, 2 meters of a kitchen, music from a land she left now time ago. To come back home. She holds my hand at night. She lets me hold her as I suffer. Tremors take hold Of my hands, my capacity to breathe. A lament from that same humid land. This is what kept me alive.