Last Gift
Ann Keniston
April 1, 1999
The grief slipped
so gradually away
I scarcely noticed
the missing heaviness in me.
Maybe this was her last gift—
my sense that she never existed,
much less entered my room,
bodiless, perfect, to shield me
in turn from each danger
of mortal love. Before death
seized her maybe
she stood before the closet
each of whose dresses, coats,
and filmy scarves we removed
and laid into boxes till
the hangers clattered,
and hoped that one day
I'd begin unmaking, first
tentatively, then from habit,
my need always to be
the most faithful mourner.
My occasional feeling
that I'm completely
without footing might be
the natural unfolding
of her wish, in which
she's present, the way
the deep blue, utterly silent
sky above her grave
is made possible by particles
of water and dust
scattering the light.
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