Her arms are becoming my Grandmothers,
soft wrinkled sleeves of muscle on bone,
holding a world, where both of us lean,
closer and faster to hear and save
the last word falling from lips that move
as if they may never again.
Let me die in those arms,
my last breath filled with only her name,
like a coyote’s midnight meal
praising the death of hunger.
Her hands are becoming my Grandmothers,
calcium brushes of color and light,
stroking the face of my 60th year,
here in our home at the end of the world,
the northwest corner of the empire’s reach
whose hands are bloody with driftwood and stone.
Let me die in those hands,
a poem content to be unread,
after words have done what they could
to echo the ache of memory’s touch.
Her eyes are becoming my Grandmothers,
antique saucers of sorrow and prayer
with edges stained by night’s shallow sleep,
by worry’s relentless punishing stare
in the dark of the dreamer’s last hour.
Seen by them, I am blind to any other face.
Let me die in those eyes,
a ball of cotton in an island sky
mercifully shredded by lightning’s lash
whipped by her thunderous blink.