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Love Song
Four months
is a long time dying.
I watched death possess you
an inch at a time,
saw it under your skin.
Day by day
there was less of you
and more of it
within your body.
It pushed you out so gently,
like a lover in your bed
imposing his will,
remaking you in his image
until you ceased to be.
My poor Auntie!
You only ever shared your bed
with two,
and they both killed you
an inch at a time.
A cheating, twisted, cruel man
you loved until the last,
and death itself.
Did Death give you back
the spirit your husband killed?
Did he help you reclaim your self?
This is what I must believe,
for I cannot bear to think that at the last
there was nothing left of you.
I believe that you are free,
more fully you than ever before.
I believe that you are whole
and well
and strong
and happy
and powerful now.
And I delight in this.
I feel you swimming in liquid joy,
happy at long last.
Deb McDermond
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