Matins

Substance of the new disease
Tracings of the ancients
Lists of your deaths:
the pieces breaking off, like a small island
in the middle of the Mississippi.
Your relatives, first. Your grandparents.
A childhood friend (leukemia).
An auto accident that kills your collie pup.
The lark the cat drags across the driveway.

Later it is your lovers.
They disappear not in death, but in misunderstanding.
Your aching is real. The loss of a limb is traumatic.
The days begin to flicker, begin to ring like bells
on the marked face of your life.
The friends you suddenly find you don't know anymore.
Their addresses lost, or changed.
No one you can think of to call at one in the morning.

You regroup; you have your child.
You say "Remember me" over and over to the infant.
You take his hand at the crosswalk
and teach him all the words you hope will drown the bells.
He grows, he becomes you. He begins to leave.
Each day is another of his leavings.
Already in him you see the final pieces of your own death.
You are beginning to weaken in that small current.

Adulation of the bells.
You count your days. You write miniature biographies
of yourself, usually after dinner. You measure
your belly, wondering at the energy your child has
as he runs away from you, chasing his official
little league ball.

And now the new disease has become old
and you have become the ancient you saw in the distance
as a child, the one in the hard gray box
with bloodless skin and unmoving hands.
And too soon the island you stand on
suddenly disappears
casting you adrift.