Hold

Worlds turn

on this: sorrow sees itself
in the mirror, and, behind,
the shadow of joy. Your world lies

on the bed, emaciated
limbs curled into an old sea,
lips so dry you can no longer

moisten them with your own. The nurse says
"it's time to gather
around," and the room

empties of what you knew
all along had no name. You see
them spinning in the light: love,

loss, love, loss, love,
loss. Turn. At the door:
seasons

reach for your hands: hold.



Lorri Neilsen