Wednesday, January 25, 2012

poem, for Z., 1/25/12

If this is the last day that I live to
hold you so close and watch your tender sleep,
then so be it. I have known the greatest
love and joy this afternoon of my life.
You are a Rubens painting of angel
in fullest glory: from ten startling toes
to face so lovely I cannot catch my breath.

I, no Rubens woman, do not spill a
decolletage: I grow only bony and thin
and intensely withered and old.

But now I know what heaven would be,
and I thank the Lord who sent this day and
you to me. If I made you feel safe for
one moment while you slept and ate and played,
then I understand why I lived to see today.


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