May 31

I heard death rattle into you

and saw infection char your rambling end;

I wish I could have been who you wanted,

who you needed; lost before my time

yet bone of my bone,

and your bones crumbled into memory.

 

I held your narrow, liver-spotted hand,

skin loose over swollen knots.

The very hand that held my own

in aeons gone when you were young and I was still a promise;

now Kodak snaps gilded by time

and chemistry.

 

I didn’t say goodbye, in any case you couldn’t hear

I had my work, and you

had your own things to do