—for Cindy
So wait, in this persistent vegetative state,
lying there, mouth clinched pouty like a child,
holding what your fingers fit,
knuckles stretched in a purgatorial grip,
eyes following nothing but sound.
Wait, while doctors and nurses enter,
feed you through a tube in a polka-dot room,
desperate black, white, colorless believing,
a place for bad bets and losers.
Wait with family-gathered photographs
left standing guard, Kodachromatic sentinels
pursuing your blue-eyed glance,
sent to fetch you back
from the no place you’ve been.
Wait, while visitors disturb your
wrap of stillness, mumbling prayers
like conversation heard through thin walls
as if there is someone listening
on the other side of silent.
Wait with your Southern Living magazines,
hydrangea pages, secret pound cake recipes,
your Springsteen music
haunting what hope cannot tune in;
keep time with swollen toes.
Wait until that caravan of saints parades by,
sustained and soothed by an unfaltering trust;
fall in place, match them step for step—
march until you hear their beat and
recognize the melody we do not hear.
