For Mary Kay
Yesterday in the morning I left the house
to go be with my grandmother
as she died.
I asked how I was to do this
--watch somebody die--
and the answer was to take the tenderest care of myself
and all living things.
Why is it that every night I
resolve to love more fiercely
and every morning I awake the same stunted, failing clay?
It had rained the night before and the earth
smelled wantonly ripe and wet like
The soil spongy like a woman's fertile womb.
The earth doesn't mourn the dying in spring.
The cherry blossoms and lilacs don't apologize
for their lurid and honey-fragrant vigor.
They told me
that the only answer to death
is to become more wildly and unabashedly
**At the time of this posting my grandmother is being made comfortable, and is cared for, and has not yet finished the journey from this world to the next**