after Aaron Caycedo-Kimura

What if you promised
you would kill me
the night before I was taken
to the care home, or to the hospice?

What if I asked you to
grind a pill into my 
evening glass of milk—
is that love?

Something so burdensome,
all that grinding
and surreptitious
slipping of powder.

You spoke of the mother
who asked her son
to carry her to the mountain
and leave her in an earthen hollow.

Your own parents did not want
any notice given 
upon their death,
just as my parents wanted.

Is this the humility of their generation
or is it the mother
calling them back?
Back to the great glowing

of those who were separate
but exist now—
together
in their far-off mountain womb.