Bridge of Clay

Nothing was worth the risk.

They should have stopped at the piano, for a break and a cigarette.

But there are no breaks for dying, I guess, it’s relentless, and unrelenting. Stupid, I know, to put it like that, but by then you don’t really care. It’s dying at twice the rate.

There was forcing herself to have breakfast sometimes, to sit at the kitchen table; she never could master the cornflakes.

There was Henry once, out in the garage:

He was punching like hell at a rolled-up rug, then saw me and fell to the ground.

I stood there, helpless, hingeless.

Then walked and held out a hand.

It was a minute before he took it, and we walked back out to the yard.

* * *

—

Sometimes we all stayed in their room.

On the bed, or sprawled on the carpet.

We were boys and bodies, laid out for her.

We lay like prisoners of war.

And of course—it was ourselves we imitated later, on the day of the anniversary, when I read for a while from The Odyssey.

Only now it was Michael who read to us:

The sounds of the sea and Ithaca.

He stood by the bedroom window.

* * *

—

At regular intervals, a nurse came by and checked on her. She surrendered her

to morphine, and made work of checking her pulse.

Or did she concentrate like that to forget?

Or to ignore what she was here for, and who and what she was:

The voice of letting go.

* * *

—

Our mother was certainly a marvel then, but a wonder of sad corruption.

She was a desert propped up on pillows.