Sitting Vigil

Already she has passed a boundary We cannot guess or give shape; Sees color we cannot name; Hears music without our melody.

The mark of life's slow leaving, A deepening blush of sand, The shade of decay, like water Stains, like sediment after rain,

Putrefies behind her clouded eyes; Obscures the struggling hunger still Pounding through panicked veins, Yellowing her like long lost parchment.

Her tired eyes, closing, wide, weary, wide Search, never still, for something, some Thing, we can never know. We fear, we hope. Please, let it be that she will finally find.

We gather. We sit beside her, clutching Cooling flesh, follow each laborious breath With our own, willing her recognition, Reading response into her every tremor.

We watch with her, watching her, Wanting to catch a glimpse of her Vision, just a hint of her agony. Let it be beautiful. Let it be paradise!

We tire. We succumb. We retreat to dinner Or drink, dulled at last to her calling, Victim of our need, unable to sustain Our heart's wish to stare, unblinking.

We return, one by one, in couples, in threes To sit beside our leaving love again, Crowding, listening for minute changes In her moan, her breath, her unfocused gaze.

Perhaps it's near now. Perhaps she'll find rest At long fucking last. Give up. Ghost. We cringe, wishing death hurry here, Wanting life back, wishing life away.

Sitting Vigil Guy Gallo

- 2 -

She's not done. Finding another bourne Another somewhere to linger, another Alien geography of color and sound To live in, briefly, floating amid new sanities.

We console her shaking head. Convincing Ourselves, selfish to her end, that surely She fights to stay for love of our loves. Let go, we whisper, it's time, it's time.

Stop pushing me, her wrenching refusal Seems to say. I'll go when I'm good and ready. Shamed, we watch, watch, watch, trying With all our feeble might to make sense

Of the gibberish her failing body spouts, Spurting from her drying tongue, like curses Like pleas, like an infant's caterwauling For a teat, for warmth, for the noise to stop.

Her ticking eyes become a mirror, image Our faith or fear or lack. God, surely It is god she sees, speaking to the angels. Lost loves, surely, she's revisiting all of us.

Setting her house to rights, surely, combing Through things done and not, stuff Tucked firmly into her nether memory. Speaking all the silences of a lifetime.

Failing proteins, surely, corrupt amino acids, Starved firings of sluggish synapses. We make of her dying confirmation, Proof of our insubstantial selves.

It hurts. It hurts to watch. We feel foolish Fixing a plate of macaroni and cheese, Pouring yet another rum and coke, Lighting up, still addicted to her killer.

But we cannot, will not, turn away. We cannot blink this. It's ours, must be, Must be stared down. Must be the season To this season's meat, flavor to our brew.

Sitting Vigil Guy Gallo

- 3 -

Days pass. Days, that's right, days. And her shrinking language of guttural Exhalations we learn to parse, hearing Our names, phrases of hope, of love.

We speak in whispers. She's fighting. She's strong. Stubborn as ever. Refusing To voice the other option: Pain, reflex, That she's too weak even to die.

If only this were a movie. Where specialists Cure such ills in the fifth reel. Where light Twinkles the eyes once more. Where last Words resound with wisdom and comfort.

She must be gone. No body could endure What clearly she now suffers, shuffling From side to side, reaching dull hands To brush away dimly imagined flies.

It must be, please, that this soul's flight Has finished, and here we clutch only Only husk, poor flesh, the animal remains, Trembling chemical reaction. Please.

And then, at last, the rattle. We know This sound we've never heard. It breaks Upon us like a thunder, like a wave. We hold our breath. Counting.

Let this be the last cresting, the final Tumbling gasp. We count. Another. How can we be disappointed? We are. She's drawn another brittle mouthful.

A tide rises, rising toward her lips A deep crimson brown gathering In her throat, blood and black humor, Bursting forth, at long desired last,

Upon our sad ecstatic selves.

Metairie March 27, 1999