Monday, March 14, 2016

Write me a letter

The letters I find 

in the drawer. 

Simple words pink as peonies. 

I hold them to my cheek

Thank you for being my wife.

They hush me. 

Your letters. 

Your letters. 


He is sick. His kidneys impede

him, worse, they poison him.

But still on warm afternoons he sits

on the porch looking out at the flesh

of olive trees, of humming birds and drifts

into the tenderness of our wind chimes.

He still is flesh. He has warm hands

that can hold things, an iced tea.

On his lap Esquire magazine. 

He is still flesh. Alert, thirsty,

he has hunger.

Body and soul sit on the porch, 

still alive,

still together. 


Again, it's that night again.

He's breathing softly once again.

That mustard breath of earth 

around this room again, the water 

spilling from my eyes again, 

that start and stop and start


and here's the priest to say 

again, you and I are dying, too, 

my dear,

he is only dying faster.

I hear those words again.

I hear them now.