I learned from my mother how to love the living,

to have plenty of vases on hand in case you have to rush to the hospital

with peonies cut from the lawn,

black ants still stuck to the buds.

I learned to save jars large enough to hold fruit salad for a whole

grieving household,

to cube pineapple chunks

and watermelon,

to slice through maroon grape skins

and flick out the ergative seeds with a knife point.

I learned to attend viewings even if I didn’t know

the person,

to press the moist hands of the living, to look in their eyes and offer

sympathy, as though I understood loss even then.

I learned that whatever we say means nothing,

what anyone will remember is that we came.

I learned to believe I had the power to ease

awful pains materially like an angel.

Like a doctor, I learned to create

from another’s suffering my own usefulness,

and once you know how to do this, you can never refuse.

To every house you enter, you must offer healing:

a batch of chocolate-chip cookies you baked yourself,

the blessing of your voice;

your chaste touch.