A Wake

As from a previous life,
the attachment of decades grew
(instantly, in a dream)
as deep as grapevine roots.
The fruit of our happiness
hung thickly and within reach.

The woman I loved
was as gentle as a vintner.
Her agile hands, her wit,
and her calming way with children
masked the sadness of her profound
and hazel eyes.

On the verge of harvest,
fatigue slowed her gait, her joy,
and on her cheek grapish bruises
never healed. Karposi’s.

As if it were the eighties,
no tests said HIV,
because there was no test,
no treatment, no HAART.

Like the moon, she was desireless.
I could have slipped away
but stayed, powerless,
while she waned.

Dazed, I awoke to a sunrise,
and she burned away
like morning fog on a vineyard.
She burned into vivid memories,
where I mourned fate
and her fallen leaves.

All day, as if hung over, I ached,
haunted by a phantom grief
as real as your death and mine.
As the evening fades,
I contemplate what Sunrise
will wake me from Maya’s dream.