Bare trees line the walks
of Colonial Park and Habersham.
The giant water oak shades your home
from the cold sun.
I, soaked to the skin from the warm
coastal rains of the savannahs,
walk over oyster-shell sidewalks
beneath the spanish moss,
between centuries of worn slate tombstones.
Your skin so tightly draws
across your face, you are already
a cadaver. Cheeks hollow
from no teeth, lips narrowed,
eyes sunken and closed, wavy hair
straight and thin yet hardly grey,
I now carry you, this body that bore
me life. Today you do not wake.
You will not eat. I tickle
your foot. You frown and withdraw.
I give you a childhood butterfly kiss,
your sweet smile frightens me.
You are dying. I don't want you to go.
Another and another until you do not
respond. Deep in your sleep, you
slip into the light of all tomorrows.
We buried you on a cold day
on Woodward Hill, next
to your childhood friend,
the emptiness between
awaits the husband.
You are near
your parents and hers, beneath
the copper beech, its grey bark
housing maroon leaves.
This spring afternoon
they place
your husband
between.
