I wish

Suddenly his eyes open with glee

therein--amused as if interrupted 

from a story an old friend is telling--

which makes his face young and handsome again,

the sight of which takes my breath. 

I lean over the rail of the hospital bed, my face above his, 

a strange joy surging in me
to see him again so unencumbered. 

I take his hand in mine, shyly, because I have not
taken his hand enough, 

I realize that now, I have been too stingy with this aspect 

and a spark of self hate flares but I ignore it and hold 

his boyish gaze in mine, gulping it down because he has been sick 

so long and so much has been tried to heal him but now 

there is nothing left to try yet he seems not to know 

that time is closing in, he seems amused, 

he seems pleased to see me, pleased to hold my hand. 

I love you, I say, and his pupils shine clear as bubbles 

and glisten with amusement when he says, I love you too, 

and for a long time our eyes can not move and then his close again.

I do not know this is the last time but I do know he closes them 

without fear or regret, without worry and woe, without memory, 

anger, pain. That's how it seems to me. 

I could say I wish I knew for sure but what I know 

is enough.

It's not working

Some say reach out.

They say beat a path to another door, seek 

the gloss of some society.

Such unreason, as if we mourners could

like eels travel so far from our lagoons. 

We can only toy with fact and fiction. 

Multiple reflections come so easy 

to the grieving mind whose grid of tumbling

images oscillate at crazy angles and circle

back to one thing only: crying spells.  

As when his shadow steps into the hall.

I see it slip from room to room and out 

the iron gate but I, immobile in this 

melancholy trance, can't get up to verify.

So I let myself wonder, was it him, is it true?

And that thought--every thought--ferries me 

back to raucous pain.