Sunday, July 13, 2014


Strained cornerstone
as I watch your frailty
surface from the side
first the left
and retreat to the right.
Ten years ago you 
taught me to be your caddy
in the heat of the plains
the suffocating heat that
penetrated what once was a haven
but today smelled of urine
and you, my hero, lay
in defeat
sprawled on your side
in a still frame.
I could’ve painted the pity
on a canvas, sharp strokes, making mute
your still body and 
her still face
as if tragedy were an everyday 
occurrence on South 17th.

A few years ago
you leaned your head back
into the kitchen basin
and asked me to witness your vulnerability.
And for the ten minutes I
caressed your scalp—your
thick and silvered hair—
my hands aged a decade.
I thought I could release that memory
until today when nakedness
made me feel less alive
and my hands, held under
your arms, had to bear
a burden far too great
for twenty-one years.
That’s why my script is
forty plus tonight
When just yesterday you wouldn’t let your 
pride get the best of you.
Instead you gave it to me
my cold doubt insulated
a chill of impending—what? —
I pause for an answer
even though there is no ending
that won’t include
saying farewell to love lost
in you 
and you
and love found in you.

No comments: