At Least a Semblance

I was so glib about death a decade ago 

     in my mid-sixties,
Even with cancers and mom dying.

Now Death is another occupant in our house,
     and here we are, 

     all together,

     partners 'til the end.

     

We both know that I'm in better shape than you,

     although there's always room for irony in

Who is predeceased and who is left behind.

But whichever one of us goes first--
     This being the end game--

Doesn't that call for a new level of truth

On which to usher in the final stage?

Are we so afraid of losing a hard-won balance?

Or is it just me?

Just me holding back:
Shying away from the honest edge

      we once had,
Not hazarding a fall from this semblance

      of whole heartedness,
      Figuring, I guess, there'll always be time.

That at least one of us will know for sure

     when the absolute becomes imminent.

Will it feel right then--even possible--to finally, 

     once again, bare my soul before you?

     Crawl naked, holding hands, and nearly destroyed 

     into the lacuna of breathlessness 

     before the end. 

That's something to pray for...

    [Nearly three years later, circumstances 

    lead us in the direction of this prayer.]