Chronic;
Your hair has become ice
And my welcome fingers butter,
Running numbly through your chipped tendrils,
Catching pieces as they fall.
Snow clips, preciously cradled between tightly drawn
Cap and stiff chin.
Lips once filled with marigolds,
Now struck with ashes.
You don't glance up as I stifle what appears to be a
Washy grin.
Doctor comes calling at six.
I won't meet him at the door,
Too paralyzed by hunger to stop him from
Stealing what's left of you—
Your bitter graces by footstep,
The voice I projected for you, my dear,
The five petticoats I stole for you—
Each smaller than the last.
The bonnet you grip like God's hand in death,
I bought last Christmas, nestled between bow and
Parchment. You smiled, delighted,
Last time I noticed.
My pallor hands wring with past
And you lie, stilled, belittled by time upon the floor.
I dare not see you with eyes full of shame and wonder.
I know I shall miss you and your
Soft, shredding, ice-capped hair.
Your teeth chatter with the coming hail
And I fall into step with your labored breathing.
You say nothing as dawn draws,
Doctor's hands compressed to your shivering collarbone
Listening for heartbeats, breath of chance.
I stop by the door and hope for silence.
I will not see you.
I cannot stroke your fine hair—
It's nearly dispersed in frigid air now.
My hands are fire,
You carry on till night.
I reach for the gaslight towards dusk,
Seeing your eyes—
Dripping with writhing petunias. Lips stuck for winter,
Supple arms spread for spring.
You shuttle further down into sleep,
Broken curls sweeping past eyebrows of
Chemise. I love you.
The wind peals in from the east and I take your hand—
Yours. You will not see me,
Too past due for summer games.
I stall with you anyhow and breathe,
Like quickstep, through pauses and stops.
Your heart lies contently between bone-birdcage
And marrow.
I smell it; something new.
I wait for you to breathe again.
The clock swindles me...
Forsaken at six past nine.
