What should I wish for in the world of after,
the during still happening I am shifting,
by genes, hormones and choice, our rafter,
the years unraveling as my mind is sifting

from boulders to gravel, the woven threads
sketching a woman and a life on hold,
the dynamic blues and yellows to static reds,
suddenly visible the remains of the mould

in fragments breaking, as I meander through
culture, passion, despair, week after week,
turning into months, I gather my few
by the sofa, the table or the floor, we speak

and I seek throughout a meaning for it all,
a noble string, a crass wire, a silver lining
of hope, to see again the ones we call,
the aging, the sick, on their chairs reclining.

The mould cracks and I gain something other,
in insight and altruism accrued,
in selfishness, in misplaced pride, why bother
when I can squander myself in food?

They sit and talk and demand that I stand
true and clean, through lament and laughter
and the days I will to play in the sand
as they grasp and grow, my wishes for after.