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We are going to become old, and I will sit as close to you as I want to.

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I'm the surgeon.

My hand

has a perpetual

tremor and there is no record

of cadaver

of lecture and training

of knowing this, doing this, teaching this

in my background.

The Filipino scrub nurse

knows it

gives me inscrutable stare

behind her mask

glare of operating lights

opaquing her judgement, her eyes.

I'm your surgeon

and you are prepped and draped

laid before me

under

somewhere in the vapor. How you came

to be

sprayed with buckshot

is unknown to me

not in the record

not witnessed by anyone in this room. You'll

keep that mystery.

I excise you

bit by bit. I am

unqualified and the room

is silent what would they

love to say?

I have done

the best I could and

we have

both survived.

In the cold, and hush

I untie

my mask, my gown, remove

my gloves

and touch each one of your

wounds, then

climb up onto the table

beside you

and kiss

each place, with my mouth

my lips

to your broken skin

and whisper to you

with my hands

in your hair

This was mine to do.

Vow

I honor your path.

I drink from your well.

I bring an unprotected heart

to our meeting place.

I hold no cherished outcome.

I will not negotiate by withholding.

I am not subject to disappointment.

- traditional Celtic

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Sometime during the

night I slip out

from between the sheets and go

out to the backyard

and dig a shallow grave. I lay

Resistance

down in it

and cover her up

patting down the gritty dirt over her

face, eyes, mouth, belly. The dew on the grass makes a mud

on me and I can see the little

mound of her feet

by the starlight. The stars are moving.

Back to bed. Surrender

curls up beside me

nestles her face in the curve of my neck

breath like a moth

on my skin, in my ear

intertwines her fingers with mine

presses the soles of her feet

to my legs.

The Truth watches us both

from a dark chair in the corner of the room

gets up, walks heavy-footed

into the bathroom

and has a smoke with the lights off.

Morning comes with a breeze

bright white light

reflecting off the paint

and a luff of the curtains. I have

no memory

only the evidence

of the dry dirt and grass collected

by my feet

at the foot of my bed

and a vague recollection

of a dream

in which I tended some piece

of my heart

stored in a battered aluminum milk vessel

pressed into the coals

of a small fire

to keep it warm

and alive

high up in the Andes

with the wind whistling

waiting

just me

and the goats for company.

Some Accidents are Happy

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Grieve not

nor speak of me with tears

but laugh and talk of me

as if I were beside you

I loved you so

'twas heaven here with you.

Isla Paschal Richardson

Family