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by Martin
Higgins I
knew she labored in The House of Death, Pressing
cool cloth to fevered skulls, Wasted
hands too frail to wring a towel, Incapable
of lifting even the smallest spoon of sweetwater. I
knew she lived her compassion, Serving
life-lost time wasters, patient patients, Beyond
bright conversation, past new friendship, Looking
for a box to hold the end-game pieces. I
knew she would never take a partner, her time so divided That
no bright conversation, no new friendship ever kept her From
her station at the Threshold of Eternity In
her House of Death. And
I knew she loved me, my mortal wounds, my imminent demise, At
her feet, stealing her attention, silently begging as I sunk, Spirit-shattered
but firm in faith that inevitable release, Liberation,
would bring an end to my suffering and heavy hope. But
she knew only that her life was office-bound, Talking
into a telephone and spending long, lazy lunches, With
very important nobodies, creative… packages, A
name, a face and eminently market-ready. She also knew (reminding me every time we lay sweating, sex-scented and sated) that she was at heart a girl's girl, not a boy's girl, my water, sister, Not bound in blood. But neither was I her boy, I
was a man dying, in her House of Death. So
I loved her, toes on the rim of the Abyss, Bleeding
from scores of careless stab wounds, Losing
aged body to ageless spirit, Secure
in the trust of her service at my passing.
And
while we played at love, Hot
and portentous, We
found it thin and ephemeral, When
laid atop our crossed destinies. So,
when the day came, As
you know it must, When
Death arrives, And
the soul flys free… I flew. Oh,
I wanted so for her to fly with me, To
leave her post, missionless and free… and fly! Not
to me or from me, but from herself and to herself. And
I ached to see that change come over
her, I ached to see her die And
leave her burning tear service to another
In
that long tired line of those who are never
themselves served. But
she picked up her phone And
wrung out her cloth And
moved to her next station In
her House of Death.
Copyright
©1998 Martin
Higgins all rights reserved |