In the memory ward, I unwrap a bulb, bulging, of wax paper,
like pages of the Times circling Murano glass.
The transparent encases an iris: yellow tongue, blue petals;
the fragile nestled among tinsel, tin icicles in the attic.
Other creases reveal themselves, origami in the unmaking,
and then marzipan (lemon shaped) and candied fruit slices
(watermelon, orange).
I raise them to your lips like a priest offering communion.
Smell, taste, do this in memory of me.
