Art by Mariana Porras
Diligently, we hope
Chemo, radiation, immunotherapy, ablation, etc.
Yet always, the exhaustion returns.
Impatient to find the place and formula
We wait for revelations
Instead, the repose of IV lines.
Received again: Hospitals, hygienic diversions,
Hell is all pillows
This time, hospice; by now you are half-bald.
Any summit of superstition collapsed
Psychological succession, your face sinks
The priest visits, strings together seraphic sorrow
Implies we are unlucky.
Rushing hum, together we sing
Fragments of hymns
A cherished image.
At your bedside table,
I see my face tremble
In your glass of water.
Should I have realized,
This intense quick dream
I would have danced endlessly, and laughed.
By the end,
Not much more to say
Other than a million variations of
“I love you,” “I’ll miss you.”
Only this time, truly, I have no words.