—for J.
contains Eros, god of love, cupid’s
arrow piercing unexpectedly—
perhaps that’s what we’re in for:
think of St Theresa, God’s arrows
stabbing at all angles until the body surrenders.
Look: not pain, not pleasure, not the rumble
of hunger or desire. Would we call it joy?
This nipping away of the crust?
With J. we watched her body shrink for six months,
Growing light for the flight, we said
as J. got quieter, all her sharp corners gone.
She sorted greetings on the hospice bed, vast
accumulation of empty
Christmas cards, birthday, sympathy.
I guess I could send myself a card, she chortled,
saying ‘sorry you’re dead.’ She had bags and bags
of Cheetos, quarts of Ginger Ale, pictures of Jesus
elbowing Stars of David, striped socks,
polka dots. At the end, her body barely touched
the sheets, her raspy laugh an echo,
skin so thin, erased.
Think of the sand dunes in Oregon,
or the calving ice of Glacier Bay.
Think gnawing, the way a dog will
wear away a bone, or a termite
the foundation of your home.
Something is whole, and then it’s not.
Find a pattern in the cliffside,
rivulets, divots, and wrinkles
in your mother’s face. Feel it happening
even now: the love of a sandstorm,
or a zephyr, carting away, bit
by bit, all evidence
of a life already done.
