Keeping One Awake at Night

I.

You are the small body delivered

by so many hands. You have

pain here, and there, and there.

You are coughing blood. You say

the voices will not leave.

II.

There are no flowers on your table

or visitors by your bed. Rather,

I am here with naive ears and

such fragile ability. How can I trust

you will understand the desperation

behind our crudeness? Outside,

the streets are turning white as

the skin of your knuckles. You're

right, I do not know what it means

to carry your kind of loneliness or,

I assume, your kind of forgiveness.

III.

I heard you passed away last week.

I wonder if those voices accompanied

you even in death. I question where

I could have been while you

lay there, if I should have been there.

I suspect you would not have cared

or wanted or recognized me,

but it weighs on me, heavy as a story

I must tell over and over. If I may,

allow me to write you, again.

IV.

Here is your hair, washed and combed.

Here your breath without malignancy.

And here, finally, your eyes,

so blue and steady and unafraid,

opening to me in these empty hours.