Breakfast

You told me she had died in a hospital bed
With her glasses on
So that she could see Death properly

And I picked away at my breakfast,
Which was pancakes and strawberries,
Trying to imagine
Her squinting ahead at Him
With her dying eyesight

The pancakes were dry and store-bought
And my plate was a pool of cold syrup
And flavorless,
Half-eaten strawberries
When I had finished,
And my hands were stained with the sweet blood

And you took my place,
Picking away at soggy crumbs.