May All Your Dreams Be in Color
In the hospital I find you in more places, fitting
your shadow into the empty sockets of wallspace that
my hunched outline leaves open in the waiting room, and
through the whitenoise of triage I swear you can still
hear all the souls. Your last finger unhooks from the
silver bedrail your wax-turnipflesh kept from the sun
while you died for a long summer but these next months
will be hardest on those who feel at the end of
the good fight, the long fight rest is easiest on
and if the nights without you are less strain on the worry-lines
creeping like fleshy ivy across my rocky facefront than the
nights without you are more strain on my mind, that sees
you in one thousand lonely places still praying to
get well. For tonight I wonder how long I should allow
your bathrobe to hang on the hook outside the shower
and watch a screen of stars grate wounds into the sky. Everything
will smell of hospital for a while longer. You wrote a quest into
your Will, “to be scattered in a thirteen holy places,” to give
finishing a purpose but
I will not let you go. There’s much more to ask of you but, really,
death is nothing one needs to know.
Naomi Glassman writes from New Jersey.
First appeared in the October 2008 issue.