There was a time, not so long ago,
when a young woman's hand sweeping
gently, purposefully across your bare chest
within the blood, stir the recognition
of one flesh meeting another, somehow
both new and ancient at once.
But today you have crossed a threshold
of sorts, where this young woman,
who balances perfectly kindness and business,
measures every bruised and weary chamber
of your heart. "Breathe in," she intones,
"Now stop. Hold that breath...Good."
From the corner of your eye, you can see
the black and white of the ultrasound,
like a closeup of the moon, or years ago
seeing your daughter for the first time,
hiccupping within her mother's frame.
You think, too, of the Buddha, said to pass
into prajnanibbana this way, reclined
on his left side, eyes half-closed, neither
looking nor looking away. But this,
this, you think, is merely a form of limbo,
the moment midway through the play
when the stage lights dim to a dusty blue
and the whole of the set is quickly rearranged.
You sit upright, button your shirt, surprised
by the sudden return of clinical light.
You thank her for her trouble, take the old soldier
in your chest -- by turns too fast, too slow,
too big for its own good -- meandering
down the hall, and out into the wintery day,
blustery and colorless, quietly resigned
to whatever might happen next.
