If you read this then
you barely may remember me:
a whisper; two notes from the span
of my voice — perhaps a shadow picture
of the way I cuddled in your beds
at night reading the last lines
of your evening books, confused with
images from photographs.
I wished you life: a long one
if it please, with all the healed-up
losses and accomplishments
of silent existential faith.
I hope that part of what remains
when pain assaults your knees
or disappointments in career or love
or choices that your children make arise
is that warm aura when the moon came up
and silvered your smooth bodies
and the lovely outlines of your
thick-lashed sleeping heads.