cold hand, saying nothing

those things i can not say
because there are no words
love and death and sorrow
and the impossibility
of ever touching another
even
when they stand behind you
lifting you

the impossibility
that we make possible:
that we might ever
love
one another
that we are ever
here
at all

he lifted you once
i wasn't there but i can almost
remember
how you laughed with delight -
there, that bright blueness, is that the sea?
he carried you once
and later, there were times
when you carried him
he held your hand
yes, no, here, not there -
the gentle one, the protector, guide -
(you had to get it from somewhere)
and now,
at the end of the day
when the children are out
and the night is quiet
and the moon is waning
you hold only your own hands
do you see him in them?

ah, softly,
we are such soft creatures
fur and bones and naked skin
so vulnerable.

the things i can not say
because i do not know
the particulars
of this man (of whom do i speak)
of this death (yours or his?)
certainly not even of my own
life.
though i have held cold hands
stared at wasted wrinkles and veins
wondered where the movement went.
here and then gone? how is that?
hands that bore no resemblance to my own
and yet too much resemblance
in their growing stiffness
i felt the knots
in my back and the pain
in my spine:
the thousand ways i do not flow freely
the thousand ways i do not live fully

though as my grandfather
used to say
(before he - passed away):
at least I
still feel pain