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I couldn't speak of it until now. I wanted to. I did not want to. I felt quiet on the matter.

On a Monday, a family. Two parents and three children and one parent coming on service, battle over. The wife. The mother. Relief. And grief. No one is surprised. The girls will be surprised. The girls do not know.

Should we tell them? I don't give advice. I facilitate. Find your answer. I give advice: yes. We rehearse. The father makes a sound like a wounded animal. I am firm. I am steady. We make a plan. Friday. I give them books to read. How to do it.

Monday again. The girls do not know. They did not do it. They could not do it. How could they?

I go over. She's in bed, she's sleeping. She's not sleeping. She's dying. I call the nurse. She's dying? The nurse thinks so too. She's dying. I call the father. She's dying. Soon. I give advice. I give a direction: you have to tell them. His wife can't help tell them anymore. I can help tell them. I leave. I come back. They are there. He tells them. I tell them. It goes as well as a thing like that can go.

Tuesday. I'm not at work, I'm not working. I'm at home. Work calls. She's dead. Its too much. Its too sad. Its too awful. The girls want me. The dad wants me.

I have terrific boundaries. I help, and I am not responsible. I am empathetic. I know the difference between empathy and sympathy.

I'm supposed to be there. It is different, with children. This is this story. I can give in to the way the story is supposed to go. I leave my children. I go there.

The kitchen is full of people, and food, and paper plates, and wine. Upstairs. I take off my shoes. I take off my lanyard. I don't automatically hug, ever. They reach. I hug, I hold.

Then, this: me, three girls, the dog, the dad, the dead mother. All in the bed together. Its quiet, its intimate. Its so relaxed. Its an 80'sish color on the wall but it really works for this. Its creamy and warm and cool at the same time. Its nice. Some tears here and there. They all lean and sprawl on each other, on dad, on her. They ask questions, I answer them. The curiosity of children. We feel her cooling hands. Feel here, and then here. See that? Cool, warm, cooler. One daughter, will they break, her fingers break, when they get stiff? I don't think so. We'll be careful, they'll be careful, they won't break her. We remark on her color changing as it changes. Its science class. Remember when we talked about waxy? This is waxy. Will her hair grow when she's in the coffin? It won't.

One of the daughters is the prettiest. She has lovely fine features, she is sweet by nature. Her hair shines. She smiles a smile at me. She has taken a shine to me. I have a shine to her. We would have a shine even if these weren't the circumstances. I wish I could keep knowing her.

I come one more time. All coming down. Normal conflict, normal stuff. Dad and his girls. It will be hard and they will do fine. I leave them. It was 10 days.

I can't know what they'll remember when they're 20, 30, 40, 80, dying. What they'll remember or not of me, what we said, what we did, what difference it will make or not make at any point in their lives.

I won't ever know that.

Revisited

my love
is a stripe. I laid down
the tape and then I
painted over it. Over everything.
I waited. Then I
pulled the tape up. It made
a stripe.

my love is a stripe. I
fell asleep
while you were driving
on a cloudy day. I imagined
you were looking at me.
I imagine you were looking at me.
It made a stripe
on my cheek.

my love is a stripe. red and blue
striped socks
with a pirate. stripes on the curtains. striped lampshade.
striped shower curtain. the Eastland. the hotel.

my love is a stripe. You
had a striped sweater. Now I need this
you said
That was a stripe. my love
was a stripe.

I drew a red pen
through your words
and ideas
I made stripes. But I loved you. That
was my love. That was a stripe.

I saw a fish underwater. I was underwater.
The fish was green. The fish was yellow. The fish
was a stripe.

The stripe is
I love you.
The stripe is
more than a year. The stripe is
the last of
the love poems.

I Feel I Owe Some Kind of Explanation

editing and helping. that's what I'm doing these days. not so much writing.

Us

How It Feels

I Love You Too/Its Like This, All the Time

What You Are To Me

Two

Elyria

What It Was

It was not quite
an unloved plastic toy
left in the humpy grass
through snows, and ice, and sun, and rain
thinning and brittling
to a faded dreary orange, dreary blue

It was a little bit like
touching your lips
to a full bottom lip
a high cheekbone
a temple
a sweep of soft and delicious hair
but not really. Not really.

It was more like
a photograph of
a pretty braid
echoing a hairline
right past the curve of a truly delicate
pretty ear
and just the suggestion
of a smile, all contained, all veiled

so trite. just a detail.

It was more like the fallacy
of a yellow scarf
worn to cover a head
or wrap a neck
on a misting day. No one
actually likes a yellow scarf. No one
falls for it
anymore.

It was the salt sea air
that comes in
in the evening
and surprises you. That air
has a body
and a mass
and a movement of its own. It visits you. Then
it leaves.

It was a long slug of gin
and then laying down on the sidewalk

why get up? why get up at all?

It was understanding
exactly
about one of sixteen vessel virgins
leaving for the coast
and stars falling
all along the injured coast
and everything
having to do with coasts.

It was telling a few small lies.

It was skipping a beat.

It was the inscrutable goodbye touch
of two pads
of two fingers
to a warm third eye.

Still
peck peck
and an outie of a tripod appears
then a hole
then the whole thing comes apart
from will alone. A long and thin
neck weakly rises
but rises
and seeks
and opens

bright yellow
rimming with orange
blind-eyed
and naked

entirely patient
worse than hopeful
simply expectant

of what good will come.

Millerton

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