When I went to New York, to bring
my brother home, he was well
into the wasting of the disease.He looked like an animated corpse.
He asked me to hold him, to share
his bed -- it had been so longsince he'd been touched, held, by
anyone. And so I did; as I did when
Judd made the same request, yearslater. There is something inexpressible
about sleeping in an embrace with a man
you love -- however you love him --waking in the night to feel his bones,
the nearness of his death, in your arms.
As I write this, I sit in my bright sunroom.The parakeets sing for their supper; sun
gleams on the snow in the garden. I am
eating a slightly over-ripe apple --I am contained in life, breathing long past
many of those I have loved. The white
orchid opens. It smells sweet.
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Pretty ... and sad.
Posted by: Patia | 25 January 2006 at 09:49 PM
Wow. Powerful.
Posted by: tigger | 25 January 2006 at 11:27 PM
That's very fine. Mary Oliver fine.
Posted by: Erin | 26 January 2006 at 08:57 AM
Ironically I'm speechless after reading your poem. (long pause and a sigh) Thank you for your beautiful and moving words.
Posted by: Lisa | 26 January 2006 at 10:56 AM
simply touching and beautitful!
Posted by: Cathy | 26 January 2006 at 02:52 PM
So much tenderness here. I well understand the thoughts involved with 'breathing long past many of those I have loved'.
Thank-you.
Posted by: Anna | 26 January 2006 at 09:25 PM
Exquisite, how much life in so few words.
Posted by: Ken | 26 January 2006 at 10:34 PM
Too close to home. . .
Posted by: Karen | 27 January 2006 at 04:11 PM
so tender and moving
Posted by: connie | 29 January 2006 at 10:02 AM