By Eliza Callard
She wakes up early to put her face
on for him. Last night, in the dark,
into his shoulder, she shook, convulsed
with silent sobs, wailing
without noise while he held her. This
morning she hops out of bed to jump
in the shower and use her magic wands
to pull, pluck, highlight, and cover.
She will allow him to “sneak” an extra
piece of bacon, despite what they
both know the doctor said, and she will
lift her hand to his face for an extra moment
while he kisses her cheek goodbye. They
will not speak of it, and she believes
his gift is not to remember.