2. Last Illness

The wolf I greet first —
wry grin and yellow glare;
beside him, the lion,
imperious, proud-maned,
preening beside the small, shy,
balding bear.

Next, the turtle,
grimacing and green,
and the plump, plush, placid
panda, parked between the bedraggled 
dog and the unlikely corduroy 
dinosaur.

The boys have brought them 
to share your pain, your bed,
while they sleep alone,
bereft of all their toys; 
their only bed-mates 
fearfulness and 
dread.

These beasts' hot breath
is stoking up your fever,
disturbing your last rest;
the lion hogging half the pillow; 
the wolf hunkered on your 
breast;
his burnished bloom and eager eyes 
rebuking your own 
near-demise.

I let them stay;
glad of this strange retinue, 
to share my long, lone
vigil; 
my cool hand yoked to yours;
your lips open, forming words,
words I strain to hear;
each flaccid hour dawdling like
a year. 

I ache to hold you, but
fear the tubes and wires
that help you feed, respire,  
so I stroke the stricken bear,
caress the dog's dilapidated spine; 
he as impotent as I
to halt your slow, inexorable
decline; his fur as scant as 
your sheared and stubbled 
hair.

Cheeks sunken, pale lips sore,
you sink towards extinction, 
like the once-deathless dinosaur.
I clutch its corduroy corpse, 
while all the other animals deplore 
your fading form and feeble
breath;
you the Madonna we
have come to worship;
recalling the staid ass and
stolid ox, summoned to the stable
by a star, to celebrate the miracle of birth, 
while I, less bovine and less blessed,
can only mourn the monstrousness 
of death.