— for Uncle Eddie

Stubbornly, you lay in bed,
surrounded by white sheets and pillows
instead of beer bottles and smoke,
wondering where your dignity’s gone.

Your iron arms have been eaten by rust,
and your hawk’s grin has faded.

I’m not sure which silence shocks me more:
the absence of your laughter, or
the fact that you’ve stopped cursing.

Over night you’ve transformed into
someone I don’t recognize –
a stooped old man with a voice
like the leaves that crunch beneath my feet
and turn to dust.
Dead. Destroyed. Disintegrated.

And still I wonder why I’m here,
like a bird perched on a post,
gazing at you with my owl’s eyes –
wide, unblinking, waiting.
Waiting for words that will not come.

I know I’m not allowed to hate you
anymore, and yet I can’t let it go,
so here I am trying to capture the look
in your hollow, haunted eyes,
and convince myself that that breath,
swallowed so stubbornly,
is the apology I’ve been waiting to hear.

But you never said you were sorry,
and I can’t drown this flame I carry.

Oh, you bastard, you bastard!
Why must I sit here watching you die?
I’m not allowed to hate you now,
but neither can I cry.

And then suddenly it’s over
and we’re staring at your corpse.
Mama’s crying, Grandpa’s dying,
and Grandma’s just a ghost.

I’ve watched you live; I’ve seen you die,
and I don’t know what I miss the most:
your foul mouth, your easy laugh,
or the smell of cigarette smoke.

I’d tell myself you’ve found some peace at last,
and maybe that’s a comfort,
but it’s not the dead who suffering in dying –
it’s the ones left standing, staring at
the dirt on your brand new grave,
wondering what the hell we’re supposed to do.

And you bastard, you bastard,
why the hell are you dead?
I didn’t want to think of you, now,
I can’t get you out of my head.