Robert Spiegel

I have taken each feather, all the rose-cream down
from the skin of my smoothest body
and placed it slowly in the fire.

Men, don’t mock my sacrifice.
You will turn to me with your last breath.

Below me grows the slow wail
of a thousand children reaching for home,
above me the music
of a thousand broken harps
still intent on perfection.

I have learned, in my death, kindness.
It’s bitter acid burns along my limbs.

In the palm of my hand there is an ocean.
I can hear it sing through our bones.

I have always been with you, cupping your chin.
I am the edge of the vision that almost saved you.

I am not your burden, though I am heavy,
leaning against you to remain alert,
a thousand needles drawing a thin line of blood
to offer for your thirst.