And so I saw you

sinking at the foot of my bed

watching the tubes run in

and out, saw you start

to fix the scene in your

future as a sad memory

of when I went away.

Come back to me. Now.

There are many futures

and each depends on us

today.

This is not about dying.

I have agreed to suffer

and therefore will live

like a gypsy exhausted

from his dance.

And you have chosen to love me.

So you will play my tambourine.

You will coax me to try

and urge me to stop.

And you will not have me

cleanly: in your life or not.

No. You will suffer too,

as I flare and fade

a hundred times,

while you marvel

at the secrets

I cough up from

the other side.

Setting Fires in the Rain

SETTING FIRES IN THE RAIN

You see. It was time. The tube had to come out. It had drained my lung of blood for days, through a slit in my side. The doctor was waiting, and I looked to Paul at the foot of my bed. Without a word, he knew. All the talk of life was now in the steps between us. He made his way past the curtain. Our arms locked, and he crossed over, no longer watching. He was part of the trauma and everything—the bedrail, the tube, my face, his face, the curve of blanket rubbing the tube, the doctor pulling the tube’s length as I held onto Paul—everything pulsed. And since, I’ve learned, if you want to create anything—peace of mind, a child, a painting of running water, a simple tier of lilies—you must crossover and hold. You must sweep past the curtain, no matter how clear. You must drop all reservations like magazines in waiting rooms. You must swallow your heart, leap across and join.

The Decision for Therapy

THE DECISION FOR THERAPY

As we gamble on the future,

let’s stay clear: this moment

with all its presence is intact.

It is not up for grabs.

This moment for which I’ve

lived all others, for which

I’ve withstood the breakage

of all I know repeatedly,

this moment is germ-free

and not on trial.

You are welcome here

by permission only

and the alarm you cast

like a blind fisherman

will only snag my want

for tomorrow, only hook

what I do not have.

I know you mean to help

and I cannot deny

you are a bridge

I have to cross.

But where I live

cannot be staged

or stained or seen

as gross evidence.

Where I live

is impervious

to histology.

It is the one site

in the city that

will not burn.

And if you guide me

to tomorrow, I’ll

show you, as you

shake your head,

how I still glow

in this unbreachable

clearing I carry within

like a sun or rising star

protected by its rays.