about the quiet, middle sparks

written with inspiration from a poem by Donald Hall (from his collection "Without") that was performed during Three Acts, Two Dancers, One Radio Host in which the poet deals with the grief of losing his wife, poet Jane Kenyon.  

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Our Middle Garden 

In a dream we dance

on the square kitchen table.

You are weak and fall into

rhythms against my arms.

Narrowly we avoid the fork,

the knife laid beside, but your

foot knocks the water cup

and it rolls beneath the chairs.

When we wake I ask you

what you’d want to do today,

careful not to use the word “like”

or “can”, and wait for the laugh

that will extend beyond your

drying lips – have a picnic inside

a crater on the moon; even

fly to San Diego to visit Allen.

You are tired instead and will

not eat even one slice of toast.

I move you to the red living room chair,

one limb, one breath, one motion

at a time.  You grin your thanks to me,

your love, muscles pulling up

a thousand times your spirit

from the pits and I adore you.

Yesterday I told you, strapped into

the lines that water you with chemical,

that you looked like a flower,

all those vines that cling to you as if

for life.  You said vice- versa, love.

I’m wilted; but I ignore you, and in

your last days we talk of the ordinary

middle ones – the rec room our dogs

destroyed, a burnt ham you served

for Christmas brunch. Now it is

not our initial sparks we labor to 

remember, but the quiet, middle ones.