I hesitate
but make myself do it.
I place my ear on your pillow
at 8:32 PM,
the exact moment
of your ascent
a year ago tonight.
Yes––ascent––a propulsion
I listen for.
A gust of wind
lifting lifting lifting
your wholeness
––mustache and thick curls,
perfect teeth, long legs––and, of course
your bel canto trumpet,
setting your completeness
down onto the
unendingness
of saints marching in,
of brass bands
and beautiful solos,
your trumpet blaring,
your cuff links
gleaming.
Because I have not slept a full night
since Spring,
have not eaten through my mouth
in a season.
The kitchen looks the same.
His mother sets the table,
the kids sit down to eat
just as they did
that night I bolt
to the ER.
Now the man I married
pulls out a chair, teaches
me how to bend again.
And I begin to sob
at the deep beauty
of sitting
at that table.
Because I have lived so long
as a clam flipped
on her shell.
Because in the bleached light
of my hospital room,
the scream of machines
do not cease,
I think of all the things I will do
if I make it home again.
First I’ll subscribe
to Gourmet magazine,
learn to cook—embolden
herbs with my love.
I will infuse the world’s oils
with my devotion.
In the garden, I will tear at the ground
With both hands and birth
more trees
and they will include apple, cherry, plumb
and the scent of lemons
will besiege the windows
of the house.
And there will be many red flowers
to beguile more hummingbirds.
And each morning I’ll gulp down
the sun in one breath,
Starting with that first dawn
When I am home again.
