…………..Your moan, the music of the old country,
your breathing evil in its staccato
…………..taunt. How father haunts the eucalyptus
of the fourth floor window. Miraculous
…………..the heart continues though the rest shuts down,
the body contemplating afterlife
…………..and its many-splendored topographies.
Die if you must. Leave if you really can’t
…………..hold conversations, shred historic maps,
pray with anger, gasp, kneel horizontal,
…………..whatever works, look, it’s not that different
than what you imagined and all is free.
…………..On the wipe-off board the word companion
to alert the staff this woman wants friends,
…………..someone to hear her moan incessantly.
Yes, of course. More than the oxygen tank,
…………..the antibiotics filling her lungs,
she needs just one, her husband’s surrogate,
…………..because his singing voice, his ring, his clothes
gone in a suitcase. Someone surely knew
…………..the lonely accelerate their exit
when there’s no one to hear them. To be heard.
…………..Is that it? The moaning sound only when
someone’s there, the nurse reports. No wonder
…………..you keep telling me to leave, soon after
I arrive. It’s not enough to see if
…………..I see your open eyes. You want me to
hear your cry. I shush you and you oblige.