Loving a Dying Man
You tell me you have come to a point
of acceptance, like stacking stones
for an altar, and there is nothing to fear.
I am afraid of hurting you, I confess—
your bones are so fragile - and you smile
before you silence my fear with your hands.
We live inside crystal bodies.
You tell me I carry love like I am solid
and whole—which is how it should be.
You hold love in your fingers and let it filter
like sand. You see its infinity and infirmity
the base and the spire,
the brave crest of it and the secret cave.
With your mouth you tell me these things.
With your body you tell me
you still depend on touch, the rhythm
of coursing blood, the scent of sweat.
This is what we understand. This touch now.
Which is how it should be.
Which is the way we will love each other
the next time, and the next,
and the last.