He works so slowly he moves back in time

carrying our dead letters to their lost addresses.

It’s silly to get sentimental.

The dead have moved on. So should we.

But isn’t it equally simple-minded to miss

the special expertise of the departed

in clarifying our long-term plans?

They never let us forget that the line

between them and us is only temporary.

Get out there and dance! the letters shout

adding, Love always. Can’t wait to get home!

And soon we will be. See you there.

SPECIAL TREATMENTS WARD

I.

So this is where the children come to die,

hidden on the hospital’s highest floor.

They wear their bandages like uniforms

and pull their IV rigs along the hall

with slow and careful steps. Or bald and pale,

they lie in bright pajamas on their beds,

watching another world on a screen.

The mothers spend their nights inside the ward,

sleeping on chairs that fold out into beds,

too small to lie in comfort. Soon they slip

beside their children, as if they might mesh

those small bruised bodies back into their flesh.

Instinctively they feel that love so strong

protects a child. Each morning proves them wrong.

No one chooses to be here. We play the parts

that we are given—horrible as they are.

We try to play them well, whatever that means.

We need to talk, though talking breaks our hearts.

The doctors come and go like oracles,

their manner cool, omniscient, and oblique.

There is a word that no one ever speaks.

II.

I put this poem aside twelve years ago

because I could not bear remembering

the faces it evoked, and every line

seemed—still seems—so inadequate and grim.

What right had I whose son had walked away

to speak for those who died? And I’ll admit

I wanted to forget. I’d lost one child

and couldn’t bear to watch another die.

Not just the silent boy who shared our room,

but even the bird-thin figures dimly glimpsed

shuffling deliberately, disjointedly

like ancient soldiers after a parade.

Whatever strength the task required I lacked.

No well-stitched words could suture shut these wounds.

And so I stopped…

But there are poems we do not choose to write.

III.

The children visit me, not just in dream,

appearing suddenly, silently—

insistent, unprovoked, unwelcome.

They’ve taken off their milky bandages

to show the raw, red lesions they still bear.

Risen they are healed but not made whole.

A few I recognize, untouched by years.

I cannot name them—their faces pale and gray

like ashes fallen from a distant fire.

What use am I to them, almost a stranger?

I cannot wake them from their satin beds.

Why do they seek me? They never speak.

And vagrant sorrow cannot bless the dead.

MAJORITY

Now you’d be three,

I said to myself,

seeing a child born

the same summer as you.

Now you’d be six,