I waited outside your room and imagined
the incision’s deep crimson pool
in the hollow love-notch of your throat.
So silent and unbreathing as to be almost
gone from me. What were the last words
you spoke? Tell me about love,
curling up among the vocal reeds,
filmy-white, beams on a footbridge, fascia,
muscle, isthmus, your domain of secrets,
of rained-on tributaries, rooted and grafted
onto the machines, when I came in,
and I could see the wound pulled wide
by the cannula, its dark, weeping undulations.
I felt like the woman who gazed and gazed into
the mouth of the little god. I saw everything.