I Drank From Your Light
  by Mary McGinnis

I drank from your light until it went gray--
We walked through 28 autumns of leaves.

I smelled your hands,
And they led me wandering into sleep.

For about a week, we thought of moving to Socorro
Where it rarely snows.

A crane with white legs filled your window once;
You coaxed it backwards by humming.

The marsh grass was dry and cold,
The wind also dry, but I would wrap myself

In my old green shawl
And doze in the field, my army navy boots heavy with dust.

The last time we were there together, something hidden
Buzzed in the grass by the visitors’ center,

Making it harder for you to breathe.
By then it was too late to move to Socorro,

By then it was too late,
No more chances for bad salad at Denny’s,

And for visiting the gay old men in Carizoso.
By then, we were over my mother’s cancer,

Your daughter’s wild string of dates,
The work world that weighed me down.

It was your life changing,
Its channels narrowing, we couldn’t talk of that day.

I continued to drink
Whatever light you could save;

I wanted to give you a night’s sleep
Delicate as breath, but didn’t know how.