The hour was up, one second 
before the timer dinged 
to say my bread was ready, 
and Rose walked out the door 
toward her next appointment.  
Walnut cranberry bread I'd baked, 
at speed, to slake the hunger that comes 
after the flu has died its mingy death 
and the sufferer's dragged himself
out of his redemptive lukewarm bath. 

I'm alive! the old urge chortled, starting up 
another bout of spasmic, phlegmy coughing, 
the grave’s cold clamminess. (Also in there 
somewhere, gratitude  
for each new scarping breath. 

Rose talked about how poetry tells truth. 
Not just the world’s itch, but nearer: with it, 
we could free ourselves from winter doldrums, 
or crashed affection, loss of friendship, 
various gnashings of the leaky ship of self 
against time's toothy headlands. 

And how truth bears a hissing, silky cloak 
of danger: elsewhere in the world, she pointed out, 
bare facts spoken plain can get a poet shot, 
or hanged, or strangled, disappeared, 
run over, drowned, roasted, sat on, 
shredded into mulch.

All for sake of truth, against
that shrieking darkness that is 
the province of bad dreams 
and worse reality. 

Give us more cranberries, 
more walnuts, I say, 
and let us walk like Rose 
toward the light. 
Keep talking as you go. 
Let silk unreel into the distance. 
(But always arm your smile, 
and don’t forget 
to listen back.)