For Richard

Favorite Uncle

The taste of metal on my tongue

pales in comparison to the cut of your frail voice

into my soft palate.

I want to say:

Don’t go.

I’m not ready.

That hug was not supposed to be

goodbye.

But it is not a time for selfishness.

So instead, I pray

for your peaceful release

from this disease and its slow, cruel feast.

I see you glide

without effort or pain

into your mother’s outstretched arms,

as the warm brightness of a never-ending April afternoon

pours over you
forever.

Richard and me, circa 1970.

Rest in peace you sweet, funny man.