For Twilight
A small word like attrition takes on new meaning
when you see how he labors to lift one foot
or pick up and hold one ceramic mug. Increments,
instants. A pain which keeps blossoming, running wild,
the way a kudzu vine unfurls in a quick-motion film.
What won’t it swallow? There is a time when will
is not enough, and to come there is like that instant
on the edge of a pool when you decide to jump
and spread your arms. No, it is more frightening.
His eyes within his creased face have not
changed—measuring, considering, but what
is left to consider? A pie carved at by a knife with
only some of the burned outer-crust clinging to
the pan. We keep conserving what we can—withered,
partial. He does his part by performing the tasks
no matter how difficult. I don’t want to watch, but
I can’t turn away. Here is the cup I hand to him, from
which he still drinks.
Sheila Black is the author of four poetry collections, most recently Iron, Ardent (Educe Press, 2017). She is a co-editor of Beauty is a Verb: The New Poetry of Disability (Cinco Puntos Press, 2011). Her poems have appeared in Poetry, The Birmingham Review, The New York Times and other places. She currently divides her time between San Antonio, TX, and Washington, DC.