Joseph Lisowski writes

FROM DEATH’S SILENCE [part IV]

EARLY YEARS

Pages flip back,

turned by a wet wind--

We're in a courtyard now

decorated with snow,

which she scoops

and pats into a ball.

I witness dreams

that dance from her breath

that break the frost.

Cold tickles her nose.

So many snowflakes

gently sailing down.

White petals surround

her delightful shrieks.

GUARDING THE GATE

Rage rises from a place

where apples crack

scattering leaf and branch alike.

And the tree splits

under one mighty whack.

My wife's keening from a far room

becomes one breathless wail.

She is calling

and I must go.

I find her slumped on the couch,

arms flung wide,

her left leg bleeding.

A parody of crucifixion.

I take her in my arms.

Her wailing does not stop.

I know I am here

to guard the boundaries.

She rises, as if on stilts,

and stabs her way into the kitchen.

I sit, alert to her every sound.

When she returns

her silence is heavy breath.

I feel the demons slowly leave,

but know that I am not a perfect sentry,

that the most insidious still remain.

ROSARY

I pray before sleep,

then awaken hours

before dawn. Absence

fills the room.

My fingers tick

numbed solace.

One bead, then another.

"Hail Mary . . . " "Hail Mary . . ."

"Our Father . . . ."  I am

a father of a child

whose warmth I can no longer feel.

"Our Father . . . ," I repeat,

hoping for sleep,

hoping for anything

but this,

this one irrevocable

fact.

A MOMENT'S REPRIEVE

Clouds cover all the sun's faults:

heat that levels layers of thought,

skin that reddens, blisters, then cracks,

tongues that become delirious,

eyes that lose sight.

Clouds, dark, heavy with rain,

bring hope of cooling, cleansing.

The touch of people who know God

is like that.  Their arms are shelter

like cedars of Lebanon, their tears

the waters of Shiloh.

Death opens grief to emptiness,

a nakedness the hot light of day

beats raw.

STAGES OF HEALING

Healing is a long, lingering kiss

that lifts you from flesh.

In that instant, all is full.

A heartbeat is enough,

entire without hint of lapse.

But God's kiss is never

held long enough.

You inevitably take a breath.

And hope becomes a beggar

who wears your discarded clothes.

THE VISIT

Suddenly I know.

My daughter is alive

in the light of God's love.

I turn to her, she is bouncing

on the couch where she always sat.

Her energy is golden.

I turn to her

like a leaf or flower

to the sun.  I cannot resist.

I blush at her beauty.

And suddenly, she's gone.

RELEASE

My wife, lithe as a bride, prances

into my afternoon bringing streams of light.

I open the door and let it all in.

She is airy, lovely, full beyond frailty.

Her only daughter is dead,

and after months of keening

her face is young and hope grows.

If only for a moment.