My friend, whom I’ve come 
to help in her grief, feeds me 
cherry chocolate-chip ice cream
after dinner, recommends
walking in the desert 
before the heat rises,
mentions roadrunners and warns 
about fire ants, offers 
her painting studio 
so I can write and read
for a few hours before we begin
the job, if there is a job, the house
already tidy, mountains of paper 
moved, pathways clear. Sleeping 
on her side of the beloved’s bed
while she dreams down the hall,
I am awakened by his watch 
sounding its alarm at 2:22, 
near the hour he passed
on her birthday 
2 weeks ago.
                        

A rare thunderstorm
the night he died – rain
pummeling the desert, forcing
sediment to the surface.
Caliche, she calls it, shiny
mirage of a landing strip
in the distance, shrubs looking
like the buildings of a sudden town.
By the road it curls into ribbons.
Want to get out and kick it?
she asks. I always need
to hear it crunch beneath my boots.
                        

he wrote at the top of the page,
and then nothing more. 
On the back of the notebook 
prices for sawblades,
phone numbers, the date
and time of an Alzheimer’s talk.
Dismantling his stockpiles
so she’ll know that he’s gone,
she gives me the notebook for free.