June 30, 2009

Firelight

Pregnant
with your own death,
you are consumed
by the awesome firelight.

The moon is troubling
me. Each night we have
watched it together. I hold
your hand and we try to see
all the constellations
outside of your window.

City lights and haze,
bounce off the streets,
obscuring most of the stars.
The one time you pointed out
Orion’s belt, you were so happy,
but I didn’t have the heart to tell
you it was the wrong season
for him to be loitering
in our twilight.

And when I hold your hand,
this hand, in the early morning,
you have been asleep for hours.
I watch the moon fading,
giving way to fiery Phoebus.

Every morning in these last
two weeks, it has grown

thinner, and so have you.