Literature
Memory
I remember you, quiet man,
plaidly relieved against a backdrop
spangled with motes of starry dust.
I remember you, blue eyes,
all black socks and white sweater,
and the way you used to eat mayonnaise.
I made fun of you for that.
I remember you smiling,
no tubes, no pumps.
And in the blue room, I played a game,
pretending I could keep you here
as long as I stayed awake, imagining
my breath sustaining you-
in and out
in and out
in and out
and once more.
But my heart cramps,
and my eyes are sore,
and this is not so much a poem
as a thinly veiled prayer
that you still guard me as I sleep,
though open
