The spoon we ate with
everyday, and you stealthily
melted out the bowl.
How come it fits so well now?
There was a man here not long ago,
who cherished my sentences:
You need to stand on this spot
and try everything.
How joyfully I open the door to you.
For you, for the first time, I frame
a safe interval between health and sickness.
The spoon which was mislaid,
all the morning under treatment, everything she held in silence.
Death has a dirty, white face
and was good for us, all these years.