You called me up on the phone from your hospital bed
as the nurses administered the chemo;
we promised to make love in Braille the next time
you slept over, to turn every touch into a different language.
Are you wearing socks right now? you murmured seductively.
Yeah baby, I am, I whispered back.
What kind? you asked.
Blue and yellow striped.
I could hear the heart monitor breathing out a sine wave
over the miles of static between us.
What are YOU wearing? I asked.
In my mind’s eye, a picture of you before the diagnosis,
the dial tone of your voice, black hair reaching its fingers
down the nape of your neck, skin so pale
it separated itself into layers like milk beneath my palms.
A hospital gown, you said. Real sexy, it’s flimsy
with a huge slit down the side; I think you’d like it.
There’s plenty of room for you.
And on your head? I inquired.
Nothing, you said.
That’s where the hair used to be.