I tried to warm the hospital room,
you were obviously cold.
You, with knitted eyebrows,
squeezed your eyes shut,
let them flip open,
it was that easy. To imagine—
to hope for an ending as sweet.
No. Your soul’s already flying,
winged, bare-backed, naked.
And there your body is white.
Not yellow. Not coursing with blue-red veins.
There, your sister’s touch is a hologram
you frame in gold.
There, the mechanical buzz is the whirr of insects,
the light from the 10th floor window,
energy of Grandma, energy of Uncle,
your staggered breathing, the galloping,
the journey’s rhythm,
the punctuation needed to end
your sentence.
You tried to focus dark pupils on me—
I knew them, just wasn’t used to the layer
of grey, and when you told me not to kiss you,
I decided that I was unable to escape
you, our parting, my mother’s lowered voice.
Which is why I take you up,
like a flag,
like faith,
like the value of you
is immortal.