Rivers of cataracts were hospice aisles, where canteen zombies raped etiquette bludgeoning my youth as I waited for Grandmas high when she'd call me her husbands name until the drugs wore off and she called me 'Giuseppe' rubbing herself till I cried. Syringe maidens and skin pinchers Came to keep her 'comfortable' As Nan asked for Tea To be made in her Ming China cup. I made her a tea with silver In a plastic cup by plastic sheets She whispered 'Giuseppe'. On her eighty eighth birthday Nan crawled by herself to a window Watched the sun fall like memories, Whispering I was told an Italian name Before paling on the golden lino Clasping a letter sent from Palermo. I buried her with Grand Papa but kept her ashes for the South Wind to take her back to Giuseppe.