You died the day the first unripe squash sprouts
curled from the garden. You’d grown weak,
couldn’t make a fist to hold the lilies. They dropped
to the floor, a bouquet of dream-teeth
loosened from the gums. The morphine drip
helped you forget your prince who had passed
a few years before. The green
hospital gown was a misnomer—how inelegant.
How unready you were for your final social occasion,
your tiny cracked feet in those floppy rubber slippers.
