She coughs
and heaves a breathless goodbye
into the bedside phone.

Her lungs
damp, bloated, sacked honeycomb
wheeze with vanishing bees.

The room
of sensors and startling noise
has not air to float upon.

Morphine
slakes a thirst for breathable sky
and calms the panic within.

The shame
of living, of death smiling,
savoring smoke and ash.

Eyes closed
she imagines her son, boy,
man, precious evermore.

Flowers.
Beautiful white, red, and black
from a husband who waits.

Starstuff
spinning in galaxies far,
with summer lightning bugs.

And then
it is upon her, the moment,
dreaded, practiced, boundless.

We run
through soft sands lit by moonlight,
now tumbling under waves.

All that matters
doesn’t.
And all that happens
matters.

The absence of pain and hunger
the end of struggle and story
mark an indifferent,
yet decent,
finish.

The world
is not created
by artisan gods of myth
who chisel,
hammer,
or breathe life into small things.

Glorious
pinwheels of light
are not heaved upon high
by a grunting God
of fret and toil.

Instead creation is stomped
blithely
into being
by the scampering footfalls
of delighted spirits
holding sandy hands
down a midnight beach they race,
dazzling stars shooting
up from between bare toes.

Creation is fleeting,
for each glittering step
lets loose but a dusting
of brilliant galaxies, extinguished
in an instant.

Our skies are sparked
by peals of laughter below,
a woman spinning,
dancing,
throwing off
scintillations,
of bright suns, moons and stars,
firing our brief infinity.

The receding waves
twinkle
and ebb, gracefully,
smoothing over our
once magical footprints
under a numinous,
unknowable
heaven.

~

Often
I defer pleasure,
learning,
enduring,
working so hard I bring you into my dreams.

I see happiness.
I receive red tomatoes from fertile gardens.
I hold grey hands with the dying as my throat aches.
I read letters of profound gratitude,
and listen to silently screaming blame.

You expect health and immortality,
as do I.
Our failure is certain.
Tragedy dwarfs scripture
and quaint incantations.

Enjoy life
Defiantly.
Hear ancestors whispering
don’t be afraid.

Revere your story,
how you weave character,
holding onto those you love
until you can’t

and then forgive
Life itself.

We promise ‘in sickness and health’
a mutual defense
a hedge against

But never an oath to our self
to resolutely live
to self forgive

Betrayed by the twitch
of nervous cords frayed

Deceived by the growth
that breeds more each day

Abandoned by wit
sinking heavy like

clay.

So say it now
while you still can:

I promise to stay with me
through thickness and thin
through suffering absurd
through a heart made of tin.

I’ll stand by me gently
as lightning storms rage
as cancer un-creates
as memories fade

I will not succumb
to the loathing of self
but will face the end bravely
with love, for you,
myself.