Hours in

Julia Bouwsma

Legs braced against the exit knob,
he closes his eyes, forces his breath
to become the breath of sleep.

The son hurtles the splayed Atlantic,
motionless. The air
he breathes stale, communal—
the air everyone on the airplane
is breathing together.

Between continents, between
days, he doesn’t know.

*****

Reality is on the ground:
in the hospital,

speeding through
linoleum hallways.

It is a caster catching
a tile. A wheel

swinging sideways,
impairing motion

and slowing
a man’spassage through.

*****

Silence.
First there was silence.

Then there was
a shortage of air.

*****

Moonlight strips
dark from the room
in stripes

leaving the body white
from head to toe.

*****

The wife is awake.

When the telephone rings,
she is already
wearing her shoes.

A muscle seized
her left leg—

she woke and saw

her husband’s slacks
hanging
from the back
of the chair.

*****

In corridors, in lobbies,
in rooms called parlors,
in kitchens, and even
in cafés

hands clasping
cold cups of coffee

wait.

*****

The last to arrive places such weight…

the bones he has carved,
the stones he tucks
into a dead man’s pocket.

Such baubles        (his father
               would call them)

but he says blessings, says gifts,
placing finger to lip,
finger to the lid, grateful

for what a man
through his hand forces

his father to take
to the grave.

****

When it is time to tear the cloth we will tear the cloth.
We will tear the cloth and we will
not look anymore.