Stepping out

 The calls from hospice come every 

day now. 

       Another weakening,

              a further descent. 

My brother's eyes hardly open, 

no quiver under lids. 

His life a dreamless sleep, I am told,

       he swims away from his shipwrecked flesh. 

            I feel him nearly gone, stepping out 

of it as he would from a suit, 

        loosening the tie, unbuttoning the shirt, dropping the jacket to the floor, 

              one by one. 

What can death take that this deep

      sleep has not already stolen ?

Today a nurse puts the phone to his ear 

       so I can speak, Frank, I love you. 

 

She's sure he hears me.   

      She says hearing's the last to go. 

No loved one stands beside his bed.  

     No wife.  No child.  No God.  

            Just my voice from another world, 

my words conjuring for his vanishing mind, 

      a compass star 

             on a dusking sky. 

That is my hope. It is all I can hope. 

       There's nothing left but that. 

If only

 It’s bad that we fight— worse 

that we fight this much—

worse, much worse that we still

have those Get out of my life and don’t come back fights, 

worse because you’re as sick as a pup mauled in a dogfight, 

even worse when the fight's over

it is too soon 

to give you more pain meds, 

too late to drive your 

95 Buick Park Avenue—

ever, & it’s much, much worse,

the absolute worst really, 

when the fight ends and we say 

we are sorry 

but we don’t really mean it any more.

We can't seem to help ourselves, can we husband?

A few days of calm and then more thunder, 

lightening, that cold overnight damp. 

Both of us, lock-jawed, unyielding.

If only you could wake up laughing 

like your old self.

If only I could forgive what I must. 

If only you were not so thin, so tired. 

And I so afraid. 

If only. 

I could  be happier

that you’re home again

after a month of surgery and rehab.

Now I must close the window at bedtime.

I must turn up the heat.

I must ask, what do you want to watch, Darling?

I must help you remove your trousers.

I must kneel before you and untie your shoes.

I must fetch your robe.

I must charge your phone.

I must count out your 12 medications.

I must turn on the lamp

at 2 AM and fetch your cane.

I must wake up before sunrise 

to boil your eggs.

I must smile and lift my cheek to your lips when 

you say, Happy Valentine's Day, Beautiful.

Empty spice jars

 Tonight I drop heavy as a sack 

into a chair I love 

stained by tears 

and wine and careless 

mirth.  

My favorite chair, shaped lovingly 

by my own tentative gravity

And fix my eyes onto the night 

outside the window and

entertain the tiny thoughts 

that flutter about like fruit flies

sipping the sugar from 

a memory—

Visions that stop to call 

but hurry off.  

My eyes linger on the city scape beyond and 

wonder what they are doing in those lighted worlds?

Are they content? Are their roofs caving in?

Are their spice jars empty or full?

I hug tight my qualms but know

I am blessed to have a big warm chair 

to womb me on nights like this 

when I need a mother.