No one knows why she's still here.
Three months without food, two weeks without water,
she has become an anatomy lesson:
dark, fixed pupils in an adamantine face,
the cords tying the bonnet of her skull clearly outlined on her neck,
veins running like mole tunnels over her forehead,
feet blackening.
She breathes.
I hold her hand,
read to her from her own bible,
the underlined and highlighted bits,
in the hope that she hears and finds comfort.
She might wish I'd shut up
so she can finish her business of dying.
I don't know. I don't know.
