This is Heaven
The man we love most in the world
is dying. He sits, fingers curled
around the covers of an open book
to mark his place, and though
he nods asleep, each time he wakes
he reads with wonder what he takes
to be words he’s not read before. Tonight
dim light pools on the floor
about his bare and swollen feet,
taut skin pale as a winding sheet.
He says there’s nothing after death, so this
is heaven’s realm, the breath-
less living room, its curtains drawn
against the night. “We’re here, we’re gone.”
He shrugs, and smiles at us, son and wife.
“This life’s a benison.
“No other heaven can compare.”
It’s true we’d rather not despair.
These long evenings, spanning years, are blessed,
and best, it staves our tears.
Editor’s Note: The form of this poem interweaves rhyme, syllables, and subject matter, portraying the end of a treasured life with great dignity.
Poet’s Note: This poem uses a Welsh form called Byr a Thoddaid.