This year I have just a single gift for you
and it's in this box that isn't very big.
I need to warn you though,
it's not the book you were hinting for,
and it's not a cashmere sweater
that would look great and keep you warm.
It's not a fancier hat
to hide your chemo baldness,
It's not the set of opera CDs
you could listen to all day
to forget you're feeling so bad.
It's not luxury chocolates or vintage wine.
It's just a cure -
oh, I wish. No it's a chance
if you do these painful things.
I hope you can, I love you so,
I'll pay the costs, I'll bear the pain
of briefly extending your life.
What other gift can I give you
that would matter at all this year?
Socks for someone who's dying?
My dear, I admire your taste
in music, in wine, in books.
I love feeling you in cashmere
no matter how thin you might get.
I love your long plain feet.
Let me please your senses,
dress you, delight you.
We are all dying, let us give
to each other while we can.
Christine Shadle, Southampton
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