April 10, 2016
The clouds over fields make fans
and a vortex. A purple sky turns slowly black.
We are ninety-eight percent water
moving at sixty kilometers per hour in a bus
susceptible to the slightest wind, or pot-hole.
One day, we’ll rejoin the water cycle as if
we were only ever participants in a storm –
after a life of holding up, in this other form.
James is weak, with a headache, unable
to muster the volume of voice to be irritable.
His wheelchair gleams blue and chrome
like a naval officer’s jacket, but he’s haggard.
A former trucker, he talks less on the way home
from dialysis than I’ve ever known –
too weak even for back-seat driving.
Goddess, when you take to the sky tonight
Take what remains of James in your arms.