When the doctor told Frank the cancer
hooked cell to cell, a twisted cable stitch
filling his chest, Frank’s wife held
her knitting to the light. Frank watched.
When the doctor lifted out Frank’s lung
and buried it, Frank waited for his wife’s hands,
coughed tears redder than the sweater
she knit, still, intent.
When the doctor washed his hands and wept
the last of Frank’s piecemeal funerals,
the wife, case-hardened as fate,
cast off, knotted and snipped.