Prepare for death methodically,
the way your grandmother used to
prepare the lamb shank, looking at it objectively,
flipping it over by the sheared bone to
carefully study one side and then
the next before sliding the knife in
across the grain—all notions of shorn wool
and panicked gasping for a last breath
simmered away into fragrant sauce.
Whisper to yourself,
it’s just a sweater
coming apart behind you, itchy and uncomfortable—
but recalled, once unraveled, as being
soft and warm and wonderful.