The calls from hospice come every
Another weakening,
a further descent.
My brother's eyes hardly open,
no quiver under lids.
His life a dreamless sleep, I am told,
he swims away from his shipwrecked flesh.
Nearly gone, stepping out
of it as he would from a suit,
loosening the tie, unbuttoning the shirt, dropping the jacket to the floor,
one by one.
What can death take that this deep
sleep has not already stolen ?
Today a nurse puts the phone to his ear
so I can speak, Frank, I love you.
She's sure he hears me.
She says hearing's the last to go.
No loved one stands beside his bed.
No wife. No child. No God.
Just my voice from another world,
my words conjuring for his vanishing mind,
a compass star
on a dusking sky.
That is my hope. It is all I can hope.
There's nothing left but that.
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