build a door no one can see through,
close down my traveling eye,
break bread with myself, with the past—and have a good night’s sleep.
But there you are, on the edges of dreams,
your wrist vulnerable and pale,
arm flopped against the white ER sheets, the aftermath of
the aftermath of
the what came after the
I sleep on the raw floor, the wilderness of knots in my back finding solace in the chill of the linoleum. We are here, together, in what can never be undone but what is now so tightly woven around these wounds. I am a witness to--
When she came to take your blood, the veins hidden in secular caves deep inside your hand,
the flattened, dry arroyos at rest,
the dust (in silence), waiting for the rains to come--
she never asked. The needled invasion, more than a penetration into skin,
nothing. She dug and dug, as hapless distractions cluttered my brow. I looked over to see the sixth try, your anger and weariness—the fatigue of the journey, seven years down this road. And I knew I could never do enough to save you, as the blood wouldn’t come but the skin of your hand rose in rage, in defiance—a blackening mark that spanned your hand, still faint beneath the skin at your death.
“You are done,” I said. “No more tries. Out.”
I am weary of rage; I want to feel your soft papery skin under my palm
as I help you change into your silk pajamas.
My grief hits me like a freight train.
I am still on these tracks?
My heart sleeps in these memories and longings.
***
I am the raven, breast open, wings cutting through the unseen wind
and I have no time.
I tuck and honk and dive.
I love you—and this is never enough. My breast dances on these winds
because I know not what else to do.
***
I write this clause,
but I am at a loss. How to describe a person, their be-ing-ness,
the--
The words betray as soon as they are laid down on the page; you, already buzzing out ahead of them, unfettered by language.
If I can stop and re-collect, gather enough of these glass shards,
align them in just the right light,
I might--
When I walked into your room,
that day I walked into your room
how many times did I walk in
walk into
step, sigh, dance,
drag myself into?
I,
the daily habits of love grow
when you aren’t looking--
the turn of the head and then, there they are.
And it is those I miss the most.
Coming in, always late, wishing for you to be out of bed,
to be up and having a good day—but planning for the slow, belabored effort: painful clothes changing, aligning the socks just right on your numb feet so the seams wouldn’t bunch and rub, the Velcro straps on your tennis shoes finally cinched.
But you were in front of the bathroom mirror, putting on the finishing touches—lipstick, dangly earrings, a dash of essential-oil perfume—and you looked up with such delight and fire.
“Hey babes,” you said. I laughed and forgot about packing an extra Depends, as we exploded out the door and down the corridor of death’s wanting. No, not today—no, you won’t have her. We’re outta here!
***
I circle back and dive into the trees.
The contradictions of space where light wings nearly brush needles--
I feel ashamed, mourning you as I do.
This day is for the living. I want to let it unfold in ease and flight--
but this weight,
the cells of my being are filled with tears.
I need to shed them; I betray you.
***
It’s this silence—between animal wails--
one wears like a cloak.
Perhaps it’s a belonging to time and space,
to these contradictions—a letting go into the bones of loss.
If our sequence were reversed,
it would be you carrying this heaviness—I know. You would sometimes find it hard to enter a new day, painful to revisit our favorite restaurant or wait in a doctor’s office alone, distracting to worry over budgets and bills due—your heart having been so severed.
What matters is this true grace of beingness.
I reconcile myself to these moments, even as I leave them behind. My body feels like broken ground--
I would not have it any other way
than to love you so deeply--
and now, watching the hem of your robe as you float away again--
taking with you this glancing light, the scattered glass remnants, all I cannot say--