Mother and Son

 

It's March again, our month. Now

it's a different hospital, a different city.

We talk above the nebuliser's roar:

part chainsaw, part surf, all edge.

 

The spasms of pain are at closer intervals

as you labor, this time to postpone

the separation. Your skin's cross-stitched

with butterflies and bruises.

 

Your hands, which I never heard play Poulenc,

never fast enough, you said,

grip, but mine keep slipping

as I slipped away from you those years ago.

 

Holding on isn't always everything. Skin slides.

Too tough to die, too proud to call this living,

you hug into these punctuated hours

our missed half-century of love.