~

Fingers intertwined,
  she leads me
to the place
I shall never
      know fear,
   as I follow her
happily
   *to her heart

Tie me up and poke some holes,
in my heart and in my soul.
Watch me drain, I feel cold,
I'll deflate and you'll move on.

Simple things fall through the cracks,
she loves his love and all it lacks.
Inside the collapsed heart, I lay,
drowning in the blood that remains.

I won't move, no I won't fight,
I'll wander on into the night.
Because every single word I say,
floats into irrelevance anyway.

My heart must be fooling me

there'll be others just like you
only not like you but different
there'll be others that will dress better
there'll be others that won't pretend.
there'll be some that will listen to good music
and some that won't.
there'll be some that will understand the meaning of faithfulness
and hopefully none that won't care.
there'll be some that i won't be able to talk to about the meaning of anything,
those i won't stay with. i think.
there'll probably be some that i won't get to love,
only a few with which i'll share pain.

but really i don't want any of them.
i want only you with the crushing feeling,
and your terrible way to talk.

I think it's always been you. 
In the back of my mind.
In the bottom of my heart.
I don't remember making it you.
I'm not sure I ever did. 
It just was. 
It just is.
And I'm afraid, it always will be.

I am in bed, midnight, when the doctor calls.
She says my brother is in the emergency room
with high blood sugar, dehydration, another stroke.
        She wants guidelines.

Dementia.
He cannot feed himself or even smile.
Yet he lights up whenever I arrive —
        you can sense it in his eyes.

As a child I chased after him on a tricycle.
He taught me baseball, rebellion, girls.
Taught me to drive our old Studebaker.
Sent me letters from California until at last
I followed, too. Now he leads
        on this new path.

"No heroic measures,” I say. “Do not resuscitate."
“Okay,” the doctor says, "what about a feeding tube?"

When the heart stops, it is as if the body
has decided to die. But if the body cannot swallow?
Or think? He slowly starves. Who decided that?

To the black bedroom a soft light comes,
headlights passing. Rain is dripping.
Dogs are sleeping on the floor,
one with a gentle snore.
My wife, head propped on hand,
lies on her side, watching.
In this quiet night
with the doctor’s breath in my ear
I am an incompetent god,
        but the only one on call.