Glory Hurt

The Norelco gurgles in the empty kitchen,
And I remember the boy who lost his legs,
And then got them back. He lived to run.
The turning point was the return of pain:
Pain came back; from pain came walking.
The absence of pain was what really hurt.

On your last afternoon, you shopped for groceries.
I came home from work, and you recited for me
A precìs of everything you had bought.
The cupboard and refrigerator were full,
And the next morning you died. Fading presence:
As the weeks went by, the things you bought
Vanished, but for an empty orange juice bottle
That I saved, because it was my last request
Of you. As it works its way steadily inward,
The long, long needle of your sudden absence
Pierces, pierces what I have of essence,
And mornings, and nights that must be tunneled through.

Coffee’s ready. The photos on the refrigerator
Don’t help much. November sun speaks abundantly,
The ancient hands-around just weeks away,
But nothing is assured and nothing promised.
The only certainty is the walk to the corner,
Necessary, unavoidable and to be done.

November, 2004