A Grief Unobserved

I just saw him a minute ago
hands folded, lying down
on the couch
where the grapes of wrath move
tears like the diaspora of a people,
traveling down,
his rough beard
onto his shirt

it’s a long highway,
migrating grief

as he checks up on you every forty five minutes
inspects your body for hemorrhaging,
then goes back to the couch,
and it’s not just your husband but
everyone feels the hours

of your age growing smaller
and the bleeding spreading like ivy
bruises, that jump from you to me to him to his shirt.

And five minutes from now
I’ll lie next to you
stare at the dark brown beams saying I’ll paint that someday
ask if I’m everything you want me to be

when you turn over,
the little creases of where you once were
I will remember.
Not the papery skin stretched so thin
with fragile crushed butterflies underneath,
but you now, at such peace

with the window behind your head
a piece of sun stretched into your room;
we can dream
of the only place to go

(c) SeG