Wrapping-paper tubes
line the pool table, Scotch
tape dispensers, a pair of scissors.
My grandma praises
my neat wrapping skill.
On the TV, a game show
bells and beeps. Brown leather
pool table cover, the cat
sleeps in a sweater box, long
black hair and eyes shut.
Pouring iced tea into a clear glass,
she asks if I want a milkshake.
We talk about euthanasia.
My mom, uncle, and aunt,
she says, refuse to. Who wants to
rot in a bed, like a monster
with words but no mouth. Yes,
we can do that, I tell her.
We figure what people will wear
to her funeral.
Black, of course.
She cackles. Tea and milkshake,
winter, tinsel and lights on the tree.
Presents don’t wrap themselves.
In the dim basement light,
we cut, tape, and finish everything.
