Drought

Aaron and I
have been sleeping
or trying to in separate

twin beds
in his childhood room
for months We hide

wine red
and white between my bed
and the wall Hama-san

does not like us drinking
We wake up
before six to hear

the last rattles
of her breath
Great egrets squawk

on their way
from the treetops
to the drying creek Soon

there will be nothing
in Hama-san’s bed
but the eighty-pound shell

of her body
Before noon
the hospice nurse

will bathe
comb and dress her
Mortuary men

will place her
in a zippered bag
Tonight we will not

help her to the bathroom
The lumps on her torso
will not itch