Alive
She sang—I mean she tried—for she, tired, couldno longer hold a tune, as the brain synapses slowedwith age, a minor stroke, Parkinson’s, and brokencollar bone canting her a bit starboard side, shesang a song—brokennotes a long time, millions of years in fact, the waygranite holds intruded gneiss threading its cursivepath toward sunlight, “I feel so alive,” she kept sayingbetween sloppy chords, “I’ve never felt so alive,” asshe sang, “What a wonderful world,” though nothingseemed that, and yet it was, her veins purplingaround senile lentigo spots on hands jumbling byher face, as if the tune were a net, a beautifulnet she was just now lifting off for me to hold, I meanto practice holding for other songs still arriving.
