The doctor's wrinkles hide his thoughts
I cannot see what he feels as he
speaks to my love about kidneys.
The trained hands hold an image
to the light to show two dark fists
spread like wings
across my darling's spine.
A million tiny filters are failing
in their God-given duty to cleanse
my husband's blood
so a new diet is ordered,
without a hint of taste,
that must begin tonight
if we are to rescue those
bean shapes off the cliff
from which they dangle.
Only a month before, he says
Let's go to Spain.
He longs for a shaded cafe,
a sip of Tinto Fino.
In his dream, he wears a long white shirt
and a black fedora
and he admires attractive passers by
and they in turn admire
his avalanche of white hair and even whiter
teeth and that leading man jaw.
He leaves the office nervous
but optimistic.
My man does not understand
the next 2 years may be a slow,
moonless descent.
But I do.
I see the levels on the doctor's chart.
I see the arrow on the word: dialysis.
I see no arrow points to Spain.
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