Late Afternoon
To please me, my son tries on this coatout of the wardrobe dark after five longyears. It rests awkwardly on unfamiliarshoulders and I imagine he's feeling theweight, deciding if this is gift or burden.
Adopting the body builder's stance hetests length of sleeve, strength of seam.The stitches hold. He grins. Somethingof dad's. As he strides to his car from
a distance it could well be you, absurdlyalive, always with so much to do, placesto be. Energy is still in the winter air as Ilean on my gate until the light has gone.
What you tried to tell me
Your breath fogging up the mask,skin stretched over cheek bones,
what you tried to say I did not know.I could only play games, run through
the alphabet, guess words as we didin the car with small children, those
ridiculous pleasures of long ago.But this was quite different. You
wanted, needed something and Icouldn't crack the code. Grabbing
my hand you drew a line on yourchest, moving on to make the sign
of the cross. Or so it seemed.Priest! You want a priest? I said,
puzzled yet pleased to read your mind.You rolled your eyes, looked up to
the ceiling, slowly shook your head.I never learned what you tried to say
as we reached out to each other,and words deserted us.
One day
Not tired, not lazywanting no more
than the warmthof familiar flesh
a closeness nobodyelse can give.
A sign on their doorsiesta: do not disturb.
All that's neededis in this room.
Late afternoona struggle to remain
awake; they clingone to the other
as if to staythe moment
Reflections
For forty years I saw myself through John's eyes ...Joan Didion, 'The Year of Magical Thinking'
I too saw myself through a lover's eyes.To him I was the girl of fifty summers ago
although he, my mirror, at times reflecteda woman I did not want to recognize or
even be. This December morning I bendto a mirror to face what five years exactly
have written on my skin. As I speakto him of grief, its persistence,
my breath on glass blurs my imageand that appears to be as it will be.
Thoughts of death in a bookshop
So many titles bearing this wordand I recall that we seldom spoke
of death, passing on, ceasing to be.Believers no more we kept