The last evening he was alive
was warmer than the night
before. I sat outside with my
mother on white plastic chairs,
drinking wine from stemless
cups. I had said goodbye
many times in the days before,
sitting bedside, watching his
bird body cave in on itself,
not violently though - more of
a soft curl, like a child's ringlet.
His voice, when it came, was
muffled and hushed; a sheet
pulled over the ears on June
nights when the still air is too
hot for sleep. When his voice
ceased and his breathing became
rote, we spoke with our palms,
rested on his forehead like
promises or prayers - soon
his hands relaxed their instensity,
lay open, books waiting to be read.
Dylan Thomas told me one should
rage against the gentility of death,
and I loved that. Imagining a sparring
partner that dodged and wheeled
trying to pull me into the the good night.
The truth is, a gentle death is beautiful -
the night is velvety and delicate,
I want to ease into it like a hot spring,
with a warmth, a whoosh, and a sigh.
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