Poetry
You opened this door. Forced it back/
on its hinges, drove in the thin wedge, saying/
“I may need to enter at a moment’s notice.”
if I slurred my speech, if I stuttered,/
if I could not swallow, which variable/
would make me less worthy of living?
These days I think of you/
on the yellow chaise/
with your Parkinson’s/
and hatred of telephones,
“There are more important things I should be doing at the age of forty-two”/
you say, showing me photos of your daughter in a pink, fluffy tutu and I
The world mostly gone, I make it what I want:/
from the balcony, the morning is a silver robe of mist/
I make a reckless blessing of it
His worn-out T-shirt, black as/ mourning, black/
as countless deaths, surprises me