Some days, let’s admit it,
I tire
of rallying to her defence

I weary of being rooted
here by her bedside
this language
that has been violated
hoping she’ll come around
watching her assiduously
wishing the life back into her again

And when I see
her rotting bones
calcifying
I know that
one day
there will be nothing left
nothing but dust, mute . . .
like myself, come to think of it.