Sea shell

There it is again--his voice

calling far away.

A voice like wind swirling

     in a shell. The wind of 

     my blood
     rushing through 

     my ears rolling 

     back the stone

    of my heart.

He is born 

    again in

    that wind.

The end of summer

This bowl of oatmeal looks pathetic          

and I'm the one 

     who prepares it for him.  

It waits and cools on the table 

     as my love is wheeled down the hall 

     toward the breakfast room.  

Bits of dried apple and puffs of cinnamon float

      on this mush the way lotus

      and spatterdock 

drift on a pond.  

His eyes fall on it. 

The spoon and a napkin wait 

      with me for him to take the usual 

      four bites though I hope he will eat 

it all this time. 

My love is so thin. 

But not his face. 

      Still boned and squared.  

Not his hair: still full, still thick 

      like the sweetflag around a pond.  

But oh God he is thin. 

He is disappearing. 

My love is a twig

      on which a single blossom clings

      to summer.  

Get over it

 

The Peace Lilies I bought 

     for his funeral 

     look the same 

 six years later;

their green mirrors

     the shade that consoled 

     a room 

of trembling hearts.  

In the beginning, there was

     a husband.  

    He got sick.  

He died.

Doesn’t everyone have grief 

    like this?

Doesn’t everyone have pain 

    spurred 

on their bones? 

Aren’t we all crumpled bags 

     in the wind?

His son might be over it now.  

    (Does singing in shower mean 

he’s over it?)

Should my heart still feel 

     this dry—

    a hill of frozen dust?

When does ice melt 

    into a stream? 

Where is 

    that point?