My grandfather stopped eating one day—

his heart strung along by elastic, whispering

each inhale & exhale—wasted

away, his face collapsed into itself

like a mountain ridge avalanched, each cratering

cheekbone skinned & wrinkled, my sister

tells me the neighbors are knocking

on doors with black shrouds

& my grandmother lets prayers valve

her apart,& we are all praying on our knees,

singing him to sleep—he forgets

his own name & his granddaughters eclose

into strangers waving across a crosswalk.

He waves back, bemused, his throat bobbing

in its hollow canyon, his pants sagging under his belt,

stomach recessed & throating with hunger—one day

my grandfather starved in the finger-greased

5.78 x 2.81 inch screen of my all-American iPhone 13 Pro.

In my palm, his soul weighed 203 grams.