" Farewell "
Cancer’s three nymphs have been dancing,
my son.
They carried mountains of red sealing wax
and stiff bed sheets to the place where cancer slept.
-- Lorca
Today you wear a necklace
of blood, a Saint Christopher’s medal
pressed tight against your chest.
You say you’re ready
for the journey, no rain left
to cover your footsteps. Yet all I can see
is rain. Red clouds from unplanted
fields rise into thunderheads
heavy with downpours. I wish
this pain was a light
I could switch off. But the room
where you lie is dark as evening.
Men come and go not knowing
what to say. Women
twist kleenexes and linger
past the end of conversation.
I watch your last words leak
their skywriting on a white shirt.
Your eyes grow into the dull
wings of winter birds. Your leaving
is a river that sweeps me away.
© 2004 Jim Doss
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