Ours are the streets where Bess first met her   
cancer. She went to work every day past the   
secure houses. At her job in the library 
she arranged better and better flowers, and when   
students asked for books her hand went out   
to help. In the last year of her life 
she had to keep her friends from knowing   
how happy they were. She listened while they 
complained about food or work or the weather.   
And the great national events danced   
their grotesque, fake importance. Always 

Pain moved where she moved. She walked   
ahead; it came. She hid; it found her.   
No one ever served another so truly;   
no enemy ever meant so strong a hate.   
It was almost as if there was no room   
left for her on earth. But she remembered 
where joy used to live. She straightened its flowers;   
she did not weep when she passed its houses;   
and when finally she pulled into a tiny corner   
and slipped from pain, her hand opened 
again, and the streets opened, and she wished all well.