In the river In the gloaming
by Rikki Clark
In the river in the gloaming
will your creased hand, skin thin
with age, bruised and brown, reach
for mine? Will I feel the warm throb
at your wrist, draw my hand down
the crevices of your face,
stop at your chin and circle
my finger over a scar? Together
we’ll become soft and round.
You’ll lay your head in my lap,
tell our stories about our red-headed child
and the bearded dog and make me laugh
with it all. At night,
by habit, we’ll breathe in concert.
Your body still smells of raw honey and soap,
and as you collect your last breath,
I’ll whisper in your ear.
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