and yet
another birthday reminder
on facebook
of someone dear
who has passed on
to that place
where birthdays dissolve
in the air
be still, dear one
life’s troubles have moved on
to someone else
while you await
the arrival
of us all
death
a bed number
the heart slows
as he lies there
tended by doctors nurses
that only know him
as a bed number
on a chart
not a name
and when he goes
to that place
we all must go eventually
he goes unloved
unwanted
leaving behind a body
to be disposed of
by the hospital staff
there are dates: for my mother
there are dates
one remembers
etched in one’s consciousness
numbers in stone
and this date
in January
I will never forget
Mercy Hospital
the doctors the nurses
you shivering
a door closing
and crying in Dr. Tassey’s arms
the calls to my sister Theresa
my brother Johnny
and George in my doorway
at two in the morning
our tears our tears
and you gone
leaving this emptiness
in my heart
on receiving a notice for another occasion for mourning: the fog of memory
they go
those names
from the past
their faces fade
the sound of their voices
those smiles laughs
a frown or two
all lost in the fog
of memory
tears in my eyes: for Istanbul
I sit here
in New York
5000 miles away
with tears
in my eyes
mourning
the lives lost
where my heart
lies
the nights left
five gone
he says
then the names
faces fade in out
voices echo
through the nights
left
that knock on the door: for Gene
death
comes calling
home
or not
no escaping
that knock
on the door
remembering my mother on the anniversary of her death
there
in the ER
you shivering
that thin blanket
they could spare
covering you
no matter how much
my voice pleaded
5 hours passed
before your doctor came
and they wheeled you
behind closed doors
to die unseen
by me
your wedding ring
still clutched
in my hand
where you insisted
I take it
and tears
still cloud my eyes
remembering
the knock at the door
death comes
for all
no way
to avoid
the knock
at the door
Flamenco Cabaret by Federico Garcia Lorca
Lamps of crystal
and green mirrors.
On the darkened stage,
Parrala maintains
a conversation
with Death.
She calls Death,
but Death never comes,
and she calls out again.
The people are
inhaling her sobs.
And in the green mirrors,
her long, silk train
sways back and forth.
translated by Carlos Bauer
Leonard Durso 