My fingers trickle rhythms on your palm,
family favourites, shadows of old songs
to make a bridge between us in the calm
of dying. My faltering serenade goes on
until your finger presses back. You’ve heard.
We sing together for a little while,
your voice inside my voice. Familiar words
set on your lips, mine the ones to smile
as every story that you ever told
me, seeps into the secrecy of death.
I blow them gently into the long folds
of memories, your breath inside my breath.
So songs and stories play out soft and long
I’ll keep them going even when you’ve gone.
Joy Winkler