For Coco, my sister: 1956-2021

Seated at your deathbed vigil, 
the ultimate watch,
Kevin and I held your hands, Coco,
spoke to you of past hobbies,
how you kissed slimy frogs, starting when you were five,
how you escorted princes,
collected amphibians.

As the shadows swelled and the morphine 
and saline drips increased,
we read poems to you,
played music.
For you, we tried to keep contemplative,
afraid to close our rusty eyes, uncertain when they would reopen.
We couldn’t risk even a brief, selfish shutdown— 
couldn’t leave you, now speechless,
to face courageously though unconsciously, one final journey alone,
comforted only by the sound of two snoring brothers.

Somehow, our eyes stayed open as your pulse grew feeble,
your skin became clammy and your breathing patterns altered.
Then the expiring rattle echoed, shattered barriers,
passed through closed hospital doors intended to shelter
other terminal patients from reminders that they too soon will die.
Your warm body grew cold, and only a cell phone remained on your pillow
filled with words of love mentioned too infrequently while you lived.

Allow Dylan Thomas to rage against the “dying light.”
You, our sister, transitioned calmly, passed gently.
                        

Receding soft waves reveal a mausoleum 
entrance to three pits near Xi'an, China—          
terminal magnificence like our relationship
flaunts subdued yet overpowering splendor
as individually crafted and adorned as
terracotta soldiers lurking in shadows
waiting for cues to rise from the dead
march rank and file against sealed caves,
eternity’s necropolis buried beneath
layers of ancestral bones. Quiescent.
Resting. Waiting. Inertly vigilant.

Moisture seeps from lower walls
watermark stains leave a liquid wainscoting
excavation above sends echoes below;
we too remain ready, to act or retreat
ever present much like minerals,
we decorate each other’s stark character
tattooing impressions on arms, legs, and lips  
ensuring our legacy’s immortalized by passion
and purpose rather than caution and greed
stabilizing our stance like a clay army 
reanimated by threats: shovels intruding bliss.