I recall each wrinkle around
your dark inset eyes, worn from eras of
chemotherapy and drugs. But you fought–
and for (what felt like) a day you shouted,
“Vini, Vidi, Vici!” with grandchild locked
between lap and chin. You scribbled Caesar’s
pen on the dotted line, signed a contract
of new life, waved it in front of Brutus’
twitching lids. But, before you could smile
in victory, you were fighting once more.
You were valiant but disease rubbed elbows
with yours again, and you could do nothing.
Your final protests and pleads were no use.
Your last words: “Et tu, Brute, et tu.”
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