chapter  29
2 Pages

Long Illness

In the fleshed light of evening, my face grows thin beneath your touch.

On our bedside table, grape hyacinth, black-eyed susan, cut from the garden; emptied

glass tipped on its side; paperbacks' furrowed spines. Each night you kneel

at the tub, squeeze the cloth over my neck, aching with heat. I wake

with your hand, in sleep trembling over the sill of my back:

unreconciled, holding me here.