for Joan

What we see is a freezer 
full of ice cream cups,
bed wedges, compression boots,
a woman lifting her hand to the air,
grasping for something 
we can't see
the rhythm of the oxygen machine 
pushing air through the canula,
the rasp of its breath, 
the slow pulse of her neck
only visible up close. Intermittently 
she wakes, dry-mouthed, 
laughs at her hallucination,
weaves a living dream. She's holding on
and I am, too, hoping we'll both 
be as strong as love, as strong 
as her grip on my hand, eyes locked
on each other, on the beauty 
of the other, on the cusp of the mystery,
resisting the crossing, the inevitability,
begging the great whoever
to preserve these memories 
which I know will be all I hold 
before very long.

Who painted these brushstroke clouds,
pushed the leaves skittering
along the walkway, made the air loud
with ravens on the flyway?
Who flushed the whoosh from the damp
branches above, lit the sky’s lamp 
warming my back? Who is flying home today,
sirens wailing a final dirge nearby?