Christmas, the city is ringed with flames
and the sky glows apocalyptic-orange as it rains ash.
In the garden of the Sacred Heart, beneath your window,
I sit on the bench where we once sat:
your bony hand on my thigh,
and look past the fountain toward Mary.
Her supplicant plaster palms face me
as she avoids my stare and gazes into middle-distance;
a bougainvillea vine lies bleeding at her feet.
Above me death waits at the end of each corridor,
lingers silently in the dimly lit rooms
or rattles alarmingly in pallid throats.
You told me you loved me -
that I had been a wonderful friend.
Yet I question if I did all there was to be done.
And if you saw my carefully veiled tears
as I pretended not to know what you meant
by 'the dark vehicle is waiting.'
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