Initials
We’d been drawing in chalk,
surprised they would allow us
to sign the world.
We made the grid for a game,
a ladder to paradise.
I wrote her name.
She entered mine.
I inscribed a heart, she the date.
We’d been given everything:
the little dusty box,
the road stretching
all the way to the neighbor’s house,
the threshold, the invisible watcher,
the huge hour until sunset.
The Gift
I cradled that brimming bedpan
and tiptoed as with a sleeping child
toward the toilet at E-13
so the nurse would not comment
on color, odor, and consistency.
Where the stripe in the lino forks
I met you taking your first steps
under orders from the master surgeon
to reach the power doors and return
in under ten minutes—it wouldn’t count
unless you actually touched them:
as we passed I felt I was bringing you
a great gift, life
overflowing in its abundance,
though I knew at any moment
the nurse would come running
to wipe away the trail of drops.