There’s no coming back

might it be
that you hear me only
as a poorly played horn
a bothersome oboe

as you rest in the wheeled chair
with your gown of faded flowers
and a tray of uneaten food before you
I think you have left little of yourself
to control this bird’s body
its care no longer a concern

its eyes they watch something
but not this room
not this person who is me

are you privy to the divine
forsaking all else

a week ago
inches from you
I cried.
you knew
at least that.
you knew,
for there was a wistful smile
a swimming back

and now
I make my peace
because I know that you take with you
something of me