Amber Leaves, A Glosa

What do you need? What does anyone need?
The cell of darkness is there, it takes over
the evening hills, growing and growing,
your heart lost in it. – from Trinity, Susan Ludvigson

Mahogany eyes glisten and spill
as I hold your gaze,
seated face to face on the thread-bare lounge,
your black cat draped like a shawl
over your shoulder, warming your good breast.
Rendered mute by the news that
binds and separates us,
sisters stunned, breathing together until our minds
leap to mundane matters, the children, what to feed?
What do you need? What does anyone need?

Magical thinking sustains the children.
Only your son seems attuned to reality.
At thirteen, knees jiggling, his solemn stare
is steadfast. Your older daughter
has a pact with God,
if she keeps the house in order,
there will be a miracle and you will recover.
After too many euphemisms, you tell them straight.
I want to help, but not to hover.
The cell of darkness is there, it takes over.

Amber leaves obscure the forest floor,
my footfalls hushed.
I am walking your trails now
without you.
And in your hospital bed, your callused feet
soften. I massage your skin until it’s glowing.
You watch the sky grow pink, then grey.
We used to chat, but find nothing left to say.
I sit close and resume my sewing,
the evening hills, growing and growing.

You fret about doing it wrong –
as if your final act could somehow flop.
Yet greet your visitors with grace,
make your apologies, voice your thanks.
Your smile has grown luminous.
Our family pulls closer, bit by bit.
You teach us the simplicity of death;
Breath – then no breath.
The air is still, yet somehow lit,
your heart lost in it.