Marty Poem by Jim Manning

I touch the loose, medicated flesh
of my young friend. He averts
his eyes. Is he embarrassed?
His pain is mine. The rule that
the oldest go first has been inverted.

Remains from an earlier visit, dry-curled
blossoms, litter his bedside table—
I finger cool-cotton sheeting:
the twenty-third psalm comes to mind.
Yea though I walk….

My wife reads from Edward Abbey.
The words encourage a spark, a tiny smile,
as Marty remembers—how the wind
plays sandstone pipes in open cathedrals,
and sees again the Escalante canyon of light;

feels a hanging garden dripping from a high shelf,
touches sliprock, likes its sedimentary smoothness.

The words stop. Silence.
Would I want to speak of dying
during my end time? Does Marty?
I look past the hurt mirrored in his eyes,
visualize his spark firing the sky.

I cup his hand in mine.