Friendship knits us close,
but bedside attentions hasten me closer,
find me fishing for fabric
below the blades of your shoulders
to snap the gown together back to front,
then fasten bracelets to rock-n-roll wrists
and fold a blanket over your feet.
***
Fully tucked from chest to toes,
you hold up hands as teachers
who tell a story of siege:
fingertips furrowed by siphoned fluids,
nails shrunken by a fungus that profits
from sapped immune system,
vasculitis scattering its scarlet marks,
and the sober port implanted in your left arm.
***
When the dinner tray arrives, you check it out,
delighting in rosy chunks of melon,
calling them sexy and inviting me to share.
This prompts glad rummage in a dresser on wheels
for a fork nestled in cache of butter pots
and sweetener sachets, pink and white.
***
As I boost mattress-firmness from 5 to 7,
you describe the Olympian efforts needed
to centre your body in bed,
the triumph of standing for 15 seconds,
pain searing hips and legs, shooting like lightning,
your broken back screaming No.
***
Though suffering torments untold,
you nevertheless look outwards,
still notice a new haircut,
praise my purple glasses, and accuse me of flirting
with the Robo Coffee Bot in the lobby.
I love you for not giving End-stage Liver Disease
the right to devour your delicious banter
or eclipse the firestorm of your charm.
This to me is valour, this to me is grace.
***
Yes is the answer to your request
to read the poem where your father
lifts you into the pony’s saddle at the local fair.
At the sound of this verse, confinement
and paralysis dissolve, inciting tears to fall
as you say, I can feel my father here. He’s here.
***
Held by this truth, grief and love saturate me
throat to chest, sensing how family and time return
to encircle you with solace from age six to sixty,
never divided, never abandoned, never lost.
Memories of my own father’s smile melt composure,
and I dash to the pantry to fill paper cups with half ice,
half water, hoping the coolness will last after I leave.
***
On my return to Bed 2, you ask if I smell bowel movement
and buzz the front desk to state, I need a change.
At the sight of nurses with fresh bed pads,
I step into the hall while they clean your ass, crotch, and thighs,
careful of rashes, mindful of pain.
***
I sit with you a little longer,
and soon dark brown eyes begin to close
and re-open at shorter and shorter intervals,
sleep stealing the ends of sentences.
Unsettled at first, I come to respect
the eloquence of drowsiness
that tells me time to go and let you rest.
***
Another visit is planned,
but I never see you again
nor hear you harmonize
with Free Falling on the radio,
lyrical instincts unbroken,
deep voice dancing into curtained corners,
soulcraft that shatters
silent windows with its flight.