he spoke about food
for the soul
as if it were a bucket
fit for being filled
with something
tangible
like cold clean water
pumped deep from a well
and therefore capable
of being poured out
or carelessly spilled,
i suppose.
and as i strolled
the spotless halls
at st clare’s hospital,
the air heavy
with a sickly-sweet scent
of disinfectant
i had no idea
what words like those
were meant to convey
on my way to his room
with a neatly folded copy
of the post.
with shades pulled closed
i kept a silent vigil
by the bed
so he wouldn’t be alone,
and when those final
labored breaths
came thick
through cracked
and swollen lips
he placed his hand in mine
until there was nothing
left to hold.
