After the stroke
you could not lift your left
hand to meet your right in prayer,
so a daughter pressed
her young flesh full palm
against your wrinkled one
so your hands could speak
for your lips were cracked
in a mouthy desert of dried saliva.
This daughter, by your side
tried to abide the orders
to keep you alive,
alive with no solids, lacking
the joy of a quenched hunger,
so she snuck an orange tic tac
on your tongue and held it firmly
as you sucked the wad of citrus
a sweetness so fleeting
giving you only a moment of pleasure,
as your lips parted like wings readied for flight.
— LAURIE KUNTZ
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