Thirteen years, the turnstile beds;
him the writer, him the architect, him the dancer,
catching their last breaths, the waning light.
And me sick from all these years
of helpless devotion, the white laundry,
rafts of expectation and lost hope.
I will not wear white again!
Give me blue, red, green, the color
of broken blackberries, anything.
Is there a hand to touch me, a face to
brighten my days and distant nights?
Show me how to grow flowers,
hillsides of them. Break the vases
they came cut in, erase their false cheer.
Run a tube to my chest, direct to my heart.
Smash the bedside chalices, let the
pure water flow through the ward,
over the men of infinite grace,
the ones who could replenish a field,
stop my heart, and let me go.
My time away cannot be long enough.