Last Rites

I was trying

to get the water hot.

I was unwrapping

a tiny soap.

I was preparing to take

a shower with you

dead in the other room.

And should I wash my hair

does lemongrass go with

grief. How can

my body shower itself

like it always did.

I was meditating on the

reflexive verb

in Spanish

to avoid the next step.

Then I was throwing out

take-out containers

bottles of wine

from the night before.

We had gathered and

told stories around

your motionless form

and though you couldn’t speak

we tried to make you laugh.

Carlos impersonating

the Irish priest

sent to give the last rites.

Sorry, he said in a brogue,

a Peruvian priest

would have made

more sense.

And then he and José

left and I slept inches

from you and listened

to you breathe.

When you stopped

breathing

we gathered

again.