Here we are, adrift in space.

That gentle diurnal ticking out
in the cul-de-sac is
light years away from
this marathon of sheets,
this life crumpled
in your fists.

There are beacons
of procedure
and prognosis.

But mostly
I just orbit
around your bed,
your pillaged skull,
your eyes budding with

Like clairvoyants we
wander the
otherworld, palpating its
shadows, clinging to the sleeves
of our stranded spirits.
Mother and Son.

To bring them back,
we must not let go.


-For a mother in my cul-de-sac who is helping her son battle cancer.