So I walked away,
found a corner booth
in an empty bar, and
fantasized
You will be old, succumbing at last
to the things you’ve done to that body
and I,
old too, but now the stronger one,
will push your wheelchair around the neighbourhood
we found
or made
All these women who halo you,
all these women
with bed-curtain hair,
candlestick laughter and art-print kisses—
they would follow you anywhere
but I follow no-one
and do not wish
to be followed
We’ll walk side by side,
our circles
intersecting. Friends
will often come to our house
with its old furniture,
home-made art
and books
but when the night reaches
a certain depth,
I’ll quietly tell them,
‘We’re tired now’
I’ll help you undress, smelling your familiar sourness,
and wash your sagging nakedness line by line—
the seamed back of your neck,
the crooks of your elbows,
the skeletal fingers whose nails I cut and file
every other Saturday
When your skin’s clean and your medication taken
(the water-tumbler trembling
between your hands),
I’ll help you get into bed
Then I’ll peel off my layers,
clean my own skin as best I can
and sneak under the blankets
to wrap you in myself
and myself in you
as we always
have, as we always
will.
A long time later
I type it up
sitting at my desk
in the clear-eyed morning,
looking out my window
at the couple over the road
mowing and edging their lawn
while behind the faded pickets
of my rented yard,
flowering grasses
attract butterflies
I don’t say
‘what was I thinking?’—
I know
what I was thinking—
but I don’t suppose
I’d be happy doing that,
especially not
the washing bit
Maybe a woman
with bed-curtain hair,
candlestick laughter and art-print kisses
will follow you all the way
to the hospice,
ignoring your moods and tantrums
and cleaning up your spills
and maybe I
will be one of the friends
who come and go—
or maybe I won’t.
Who knows?