Your hands shake now, back bent,

the wheels on your walker spin slowly

across the linoleum, spin slowly past the others,

their morbid shuffle,

windowless dining hall,

a crumb left caught on a cheek,

the slow chew of soft foods and

long, languid lunch.

I can’t stand it in here

I scream quietly,

appetite gone,

soup like green glue slides

down my throat,

your eyes eager.

You so hope

I’ll like it.

At the birthday party

we uncork the memory tube.

The daal is just spicy enough,

cardamom and cumin,

like home.

***