I held her hand cupped within mine,
her brown fingers curled in permanent rest
as I applied a fresh coat of enamel to her nails.

I did not know the frail woman in the casket,
though I wrapped her body in the fine sari 
her family brought, pulled silver bangles 

onto her wrists and brushed her hair. And I held 
her cool hands in mine as I painted her nails, 
wondering when her skin had last been touched,

in life and without worry. And I thought of the long 
viral months when my skin too was untouchable
and pressed the warmth of my palm into hers.

I dressed her in a white sari
and painted her nails,
but I do not remember 
her name.

And I don’t 
remember the name 
of the man whose cheeks
were stained purple 
with pooled blood
from lying prone, 
a ventilator 
strapped to his face,
as he lay dying 
and dying and dying.

I do not remember their names,
but I remember her 
delicate nails and graying hair 
that I combed smooth 
behind her resting head,
and I remember his face,
marked by signs of a fate
that might have been mine.

for Raya

As spring arrived once more,
the death calls petered out. 
We made it through a full year, 
just barely, and survived. 

Scarred and struggling, we let down 
our guard, celebrated our escape.

The final blow came then
in the thirteenth month, shots 
burning fresh in our arms, cherry trees 
almost gaudy in their pink finery. 

Our joy as foolish, death ordinary 
and unexpected would not stop. 

Come lilac season, we swiped 
a sprig or two from untended 
side gardens and held the purple 
blooms to our unmasked noses. 

We inhaled the sweetness, so strong 
and fleeting, and wept for you.