Pietà

(J.M., 1966-91)


You still had the look of pain
on your face. And watching
the tenderness of her
who caressed your death,
fingers smoothing your damp hair,
your lips and softest curving…
I turned away. I could no longer look.

It was night. From the high hospital window
I watched the traffic flowing
through a great interchange.
White lights growing brighter, red lights
disappearing into dark.
Merging, parting
to distant destinations.

.