There
I was holding your hand, but you were not there.
The palm was yours, those freckles were yours,
but you were not there. Your closed eyelids were still.
They had not opened for days. But I knew
you had been there. You were there. You were
listening; even lost you could hear in there
somewhere. Each toe was yours. Our same different shapes.
The left foot, yours — that scar from the bone spur —
the belly was yours. How were you not there?
The snow was falling. It just kept on falling.
It filled up the streets, and the streets were empty.
Soon the dark came in and filled us, and I said
your name, but you were not there.
The night left its frost on the tree buds.
The snow was silent. Everything waiting for you
was still. Sunday dinners, Christmas next year, upriver
was waiting for you — June salmon — the West.
Your cheeks, your mouth, the new wrinkles
around your neck, everything was yours but the pain
had gone. I was waiting for you. The labored breath
was not there. The tired forehead was not there.
The words waiting for you to wake up and speak
had gone. This body was yours. It was there.
I was holding your hand, watching you go.