Dawn’s edge of fitful night and I

am almost waking still asleep beside her 

propped on pillows she is

in her own bed her own room

making jokes of my concern or

                                              she is 

walking down the drive her hands jammed in pockets

dog on her heels while I am in the circle waiting 

beneath apple blossoms I am drunk with scent

she has something to say there is something 

delicious on the stove it is

                                               the hour of possibility	
	
a house where I want to live

I think we are out of eggs or bananas—I need to 

run to the store before breakfast

there is still so much to do to be ready

but we are busy turning up the earth 

in her perennial garden Your lupine or your life 

she says as she unpots and tears at roots to bury
 
and didn’t the forecast say

thunderstorms so why all this Wedgewood blue sky

and the rattle of china in the cabinet as neighbors 

open their garage the noise

of someone else’s machines breathing 

and beeping through the wall all night

I am wearing one of the starched Easter dresses 

she smocked by hand or her hospital gown

I am mapping her wrinkles as she sleeps

did I set the alarm?

I want to sketch the oval shape of her mouth

as it rasps her last air I say “Open your eyes” 

and she sticks out her tongue 

                                                           maybe it’s a joke

then the cat’s steady meow from the kitchen

where she awaits food

my bladder’s tug 

sunlight’s bright announcement 

climbing the walls

and the horn falls off the unicorn

the world is fully a horse now

and she is gone from it.