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.
Monday, March 14, 2016
Flesh
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
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
again,
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.
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