She used to knit beautiful things as she leaned over his bed
Like the angels she dreams about, the saints she prays to,
The clink-clinking of the bamboo needles like the ping-pinging
of her jittery hands on prayer beads, the ones my father bought at the Vatican
and cradled home like someone else’s child.
She cradled him like her own, as he shriveled back and reached out
With arms bruised and scarred from steroids and bedridden weakness.
I can see the house now that he’s gone, all echoes and tones of peach
Piles of homemade pillows fighting the ricocheting repetition of her voice
That forces him out, replacing the soft slow drone of his machine
With the steely sounds of the television, the creak of old furniture and floorboards
The way thoughts only amplify the ringing in her ears.