Weeks of it, then, months of it.
Her weight fell, but the pain reached no limit.
She was just an ordinary woman--
worried, worn, and emptied again and again;
but not released. No, not released.
The coming of this death, it's empty
lack of dignity
is worse than any word
could say. My sister, my little bird....
I remember long ago.
I want to say our memories
are safe, beyond disease,
but I won't stir them up in you.
Our summer games are far away and few.
What past startles through her sleep?
My sister, like Beardsley, once drew
clever people. This passed too.
She raised a beautiful son.
Now hopes and all, one by one,
are part of our hard and sudden prayers.
I haven't prayed well.
For what heaven? From this hell?
Only for the transfiguration of pain.
May someone remain
to bless us, who knows.
Such a beautiful woman.