We thought we might lose her after a bad night
and a switch to liquid morphine

but she bounces back and wants a sandwich—
no, not a sandwich, she says. She agrees to Rice Krispies
but won’t open her mouth when I offer the spoon.
Not Rice Krispies. What is it I want?

Soup no, bread no, milk no, banana and crackers no,
chips no, do I have to name everything in the house?

Narrow it down—meat no, vegetables no, sweet or sour,
oh, for God’s sake, filet mignon no, lobster thermidor
with a nice chardonnay—no, no, no.

Somewhere in the locked recess of her mind
is an ideal meal, a dinner most desired,
and she refuses everything else.
There’s something to be admired in that.

At night the Questioner comes. Am I a good man?
I think so, even though I’ve broken nine
of ten Commandments (all ten if you include insects
or invisible creatures I kill every day).

A great man? Like in an absolute sense,
capital-G Great, Aristotle, Leonardo,
Mozart, Alexander the—or something more relative,
more human? Would I step forward for the meek,
would I hide the hunted at the threat of my own life?

I suppose I mostly swallow what’s put in front of me
(like tyranny, injustice, like the trappings of absurd death.)

Bonnie, the hospice nurse, told me, if you observe
changes over a month then she has months to live,
if you observe changes over weeks, then you have weeks,
days then days, hours . . .

Pizza no, ice cream no, Vienna sausages no.
Angel food, devil’s food, no, no, no.