Your wife is going to die.
And I saw no screaming children,
no playsets, no coffees in Palermo,
nor wind chimes that signal hello
in the doctor’s youngish face.
It was a terse slap goodbye
with which he kicked me into the streets
where I wanted to die with her.
The wind blows across her pinhole eyes, dry from scratching.
Morphine nails fix her swelling joints and senses.
They are an arresting brake. Her breathing is hoarse and taut.
My hands press damp towels to her cracked, hot lips and brow.
She says, “You know you’re beautiful when you don’t notice, or try?”
I flipped the gazette to the news of a comet coming to Earth.
The crash had been prophesied for years.
Heavenly boomerangs slay demons in the bush of ghosts.
I want to die with her.
I want to die with her now.
Sad for her passing. I’m left longing to know more about her and the physician/prophesier.
Heavenly boomerangs slay demons in the bush of ghosts is a good line!
Want to know more about the grieving lover too. More, more, more. Always leave them wanting more?
It wouldn’t evoke a sense of longing in this particular poem if I anatomized to gross particulars.
Sage advice from Linda.
This poem rings with the ordinary (flipping through the gazette) and is wrung like the damp towel of deep grief
I have noticed a dry wind that blows across some of your poems. Such love/such sadness!
This hurts to read — those morphine nails. So much earned sadness that the ending rings true.
Heartwrenching, and that deathbed quotation is gobsmacking. Great work.
thank you Gaby