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| Jim, |
| I have not written past your deaths |
| though I have witnessed each one |
| before its close, wrapped and preserved |
| like a secret in cellophane. I never told |
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| you |
| the many times I looked for your name |
| in the obituary column, only to sigh |
| for one more day of pain, knowing twenty-four |
| more hours and thirty-six more pills |
|
| will |
| become death's bitter flavors. They made |
| you into a spectrum with more colors |
| than T-cells. Together they grew to be |
| a handful of seedlings that you and I |
|
| always |
| feared to plant, afraid of the monster we |
| would create. Oh, Jim, how I wish I could |
| remove your death like a giant band-aid and |
| see you scarred. But in the end would you |
|
| be |
| healed? I remember saying, "you wouldn't |
| want to watch a man try to eat with |
| a bandaged finger." And you said, |
| "I'll feed you if I have to." Oh, |
|
| my |
| Jim of the gauze. Jim of the healing smile. |
| I hate the balloon you made me, the |
| filling me with the helium of your love |
| and the releasing me to a dark and angry |
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| sky. |
| I have been floating for two years. |
| Wavering over telephone wires and postage |
| stamps trying to get a glimpse of you |
| before you shriveled up and disappeared |
| like a brief yet important moment. |
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