Acceptance

He stoops low,
one knee to the ground,
shovels dirt
into a mound
like a grave unsettled,
plump
and black.
He buries bulbs
deep,
explains why
he must stay.
"If I could, I wouldn't,
but I'm needed,"
I listen,
shoot a stare
into the sun.
Inside,
the dying one tries,
but she holds him back
in the living room,
side by side,
an arm's length away,
they live in a dream,
No beginning, no end,
oxygenated and waiting
for this, too, to pass.
She takes his temperature,
blood pressure,
writes it down.
No one will see.
They told her, no use -
it will do no good,
but she's guided by fear.
Outside,
I squint and listen,
his litany drones on
like highway noise.
He feverishly
digs the earth,
and moves his lips
like a salesman
pitching
for the umpteenth time.
Don't you know I see?
I want to tell him,
your Irises will not hide
death,
decorations
to trick the mind from
the truth.
Who is this for?
He is there.
I am here,
and a cross examination
will only further my reputation as
Shit Storm Maker.
So I nod like the doomed - Yes. Yes. Yes.
I feel the sunlight
warm the the lids of my eyes.
They are closed like tombs,
but I think I see the sky.
I do.
I spin to tell him,
but he has turned away,
head down,
lost in the certainty of dirt.
This is his sky,
his ground,
his truth,
and I am
only a visitor.