Calling in that half-bird voice of hers
(she’d warble when she wanted a favor),
you figure she requires a tumbler of water
to wash down her heart and pressure pills.
Or maybe she feels for some peppermint tea
and a sweet biscuit, but what she says is
When they lay me out at the last, I need
you to please ensure my feet are not cold.
Then she produces this pair of soft socks
hand-knitted and shot through with silver.
Socks sleek as rabbits and shark-shaped
like the ones gifted to Neruda by Maru Mori.
Next she yo-yos her thumbed tape measure
and bids you measure her body entire
from shoulder to heel, then says to tell
whoever will make the shroud to make sure
It falls so her two dry legs are not exposed.
Next she gestures to a pillowcase of clean
underclothes. Make sure—she motions below—
you see to it that down there is well covered.
Don’t make them powder her face, and if blood
pools in her palms, here is a pair of white gloves.
Now bring her peppermint tea and a sweet biscuit.