Pity embalms love. If love is dead, then pity impregnates its body against decay. Touches its unborn child with one hand, while making change with the other. A sentence about love and death stands alone. Who needs any other? If she'd been less blunt, we might have let her go. But I took away her keys; that was her life sentence. Four years ago, this was her last month. There's no form for that, the continuous present trapped inside the past like a bee inside a flower. Its sweetness stings. The Alzheimer's patient cannot remember, but she feels acutely. To be in time is to be possessed by it. Tense cell, my place of rest electric. After his massage of honey and salt, he spent hours scrubbing off his skin. Why did you choose that one? he remembers being asked.
---18 May 2015