The Visit

by Marcia Lee Laycock

I wear real pearls, a warm glow of wholeness
at his bed-side.
He wears a cotton shirt, once fitting, until disease
stripped away his power of immunity,
the firm flesh from his bones.

He says he has nothing to complain about
but life drips from an I.V. pole,
the fluid trembling,
swelling from the spout
until its fullness makes it fall.

His hand wraps his "morphine machine," it
shoots him every hour or more
when he feels "a breakthrough of pain,"

but the extra puts him out
"somewhere in lulu land,"
he smiles, runs long-boned
fingers through thin white hair,
that once was black,
ungreyed by age not long ago,

I finger my string of pearls,
stare at his slippers on the floor, then,

glancing up, notice around his neck
a thin circle of jade,

circle without a centre
suspended between protruding bones,
notice the tattoo, a butterfly still vibrant blue,

on skin blue-veined and dry as paper,

cut and pocked with sores.

And when we hug to say good-bye

I feel each whole round pearl
pressed to my flesh,
his clutching strength so squeezing me,
I want to say it will be,
all will be right
but the lie catches, hangs
between his pale green circle of jade
and my thread of living pearls.

--MLL

© 2000, Marcia Lee Laycock