To become air

(This is for my friends and hospice teammates, as we grieve for our patients.)

Each day is a kiss
 with no response,
but I know, it's a kiss.
 Like the kisses you’ve sown
 into the walls, the windowsills
for forty one years,
 the way our children crackled laughter
 when they were children.

 Each day I give myself a task.
 I count how many kisses given
 And how many received.
 I say, “Sweetheart, how many kisses will you give me today?”
And in your silence, I write down
 a thousand.

 A thousand kisses to give me time.
to catch your last breath into my body
I will keep you
as I too, wait
to become air*.

(*When Breath Becomes Air, by Paul Kalanithi)

3am cravings

Chased out of sleep by restless dreams
(I'm staring at a gaping wound pulsating on my head),
I wake up hungry, impatient.
I rummage through the refrigerator looking for some ready-made food, 

a left over pizza slice from Costco. Unsatisfied, I begin making dinner. 

I think about going back to bed.
I think about reaching over
your side of the bed,
pull myself close.
Out of habit, I kiss your back and
sleepily
leave my lips there.

The children will wake soon,
but there's still plenty of time
to cut the vegetables, soak the noodles, roast the onion and ginger,
start the broth. Even time
to brush my teeth again and read a poem.

(Sept 20, 2017. For B.)

It is done

It is done.
This life is done.
You don’t need to worry anymore,
though she is your life.
I know.
With her you’d tasted homemade apple pie
and fresh okra from the garden.
With her too, you saw sunflowers hung
heavy with seeds,
firm yellow petals radiant even at dusk,
how you imagined love
to be.

I know.
With her you’d found your burial ground,
finally stopped searching for your birthplace,
laid down your loneliness,
like a child waiting for
his mother’s return
for so long no one came except night
wailing
long and deep.

I know.

I know you worry,
but she will be fine.
She will find a way to change the light bulb. She will pay the bills on time.
She will know what to do with your books.
She will get help cleaning the house.
She will make it to the doctor’s office.
She will go to sleep and wake up on your side of the bed. She will sometimes
forget what day it is, but she will remember that she has a hair appointment.
She will laugh and tell stories about you, her witty, charming Abe.
She will grieve heavily,
and she will be beautiful,
because you are beautiful—
you and her,
this life,
apart and together,
in love and death,
are beautiful.

(In memory of Mr B.)
10/1/18