Your wife is going to die.

And I saw no screaming children, 
no playsets, no coffees in Palermo, 
nor wind chimes that signal hello
in the doctor’s youngish face.

It was a terse slap goodbye 
with which he kicked me into the streets
where I wanted to die with her.

The wind blows across her pinhole eyes, dry from scratching. 
Morphine nails fix her swelling joints and senses.
They are an arresting brake. Her breathing is hoarse and taut.
My hands press damp towels to her cracked, hot lips and brow.

She says, “You know you’re beautiful when you don’t notice, or try?”

I flipped the gazette to the news of a comet coming to Earth.  
The crash had been prophesied for years.  
Heavenly boomerangs slay demons in the bush of ghosts.  

I want to die with her.
I want to die with her now.