The speaker addresses Death as an old friend who has been slowly taking her body back, bit by bit, over fifty years. She’s weary of the slow, elaborate ceremony of dying, and she feels trapped in a shrunken, suffering shape that no longer looks like the body she once had. She tells Death to hurry up — she won’t resist, and she even calls him a good friend, though his only fault is lingering too long out of pity for those who fear him.
Then she stops short. She admits she grudges giving up two things: her right hand and her quick-beating heart, because they never once showed cowardice or betrayed her. She reflects on how hands and hearts are the ultimate symbols of a person’s passion and purpose — so powerful that old cultures nailed enemies’ hands at crossroads or enshrined leaders’ hearts. Even though her hand is now feeble and wrinkled, she still cherishes it. In the end she accepts that Death can have everything, believing there will be work for her still, somewhere. The mood is intimate, dryly humorous, and laced with a stubborn affection for the body’s most faithful parts.