Death Bed, Breath Held

Deep South v.3 n.3 (Spring 1997)

Death Bed, Breath Held

How precarious you are Kathleen.
You'd make excellent fiction
If you weren't now breathing
In & out as though the air

Was broken crockery &
If I couldn't hear your voice
Like a hand
Descending under the currents.

We've said everything we'll say
To each other, so now we talk
To ourselves, telling ourselves
In mumbles to talk of other things.

I passed the road works in Hanover St
& There, some sentimental hardhat
Vigilantly kept the go/stop sign
At go, for every car, every bus.

Every bicycle that blindly hummed,
Rumbled or hissed past,
His hands yellowing as
The cold metal revolved in them.

I watched his eyes pinch as he held
His breath & I found myself
Holding mine,
As though for him.