Transmissions to the Mystic Nebula

All I Can Offer

–For Stephanie Ann Brendle

There was laughter once;
patisseries for twilight desserts;
hot dogs on vibrant streets in New York.
All the time her eyes were brilliant silver stars,
the color of angels laughing.
City lights fell into orbit around the gravity
of those eyes. Her soul was an oasis, cool
and deep.

Then medicines, confident-sounding doctors.
Powerless, they watched the darkened hollows
around those weary silver stars that sparkled
still, despite Death whispering and pointing
in the next room like a gossip at a cocktail party.
She never asked why; never spoke of pain to me.
Her strength was her faith so foreign to me
that one way or another
everything would be all right;
Every day, her house of hope stalked
by cold nameless shadows in the blackest closets of her mind.

All I had was my anger, a slow rage
radiating like iron nails in a hot pan.
Here is my spit for the damned fate of the good and the endless luck
of the wicked; my hands to shake the gates of Heaven,
arrogantly demanding an explanation.
She's gone now, taken. Stolen.
I won't let it go. By the memory of those silver stars
I shall be furious for her.