He’s in active dying, his family texted.
They held the phone under his comatose ear,
I said my good-bye, I wished him release.
I watched the rest of the day, then all night.
Still nothing, so finally I slept. Wakened
out of my second sleep by the call
carrying the hospital’s stinging perfume,
the sign everyone knows.
They’d asked me what music he’d loved.
I’d told them: The Great Fugue,
the Solemn Little Mass,
the Eroïca. They’d found them all
and played him out sweetly. It could do no harm.
His breath slowed, wafted out.
Was it a ritard or finally a fermata,
timed for the turn of the Funeral March.
To help out, I’d called the Institute where he’d trained,
I gave them the news.
How odd, the director told me,
I was just looking over the analysts.
His face is on my screen right now.
As offering, I made bagels the way he’d liked,
with double salt, double honey,
extra gluten for extra chew.
I’d proofed the yeast,
I’d checked the temperature,
I’d done everything I could,
but they just weren’t going to rise.
