The Unspoken Space Between Dusk and Dark

I pick up my childhood,
matted fur scrunched in different directions
from her favorite way to sleep—
half twisted on my bed,
the pillow I never use;
I pull my crewneck up to cloak her thin skin,
my midriff bare to the November air
as we sit on my middle porch step
and look at the falling sun;
The light paints my bruises deep colors,
stark against translucent skin
from contorting my body into stretches
my limbs can’t handle
to be more lean, less fat and bones,
showing ribs;

I want us to see Christmas, the bells
that mark her birthday,
stockings instead of stains
on my bedsheets from her cancer,
eating away at intestines that have been around since 2006;
I have to be there to hold her in the fear
that booms with fireworks we set off
to ring in the new year,
let her hold me back in the fear I’ve had since seven,
the dark;
The things around me start dying to accompany her—
my favorite plant loses leaves,
wilting under the weight of an ending lifeline,
spiders curl their legs in spite of themselves,
to meet her;

I go hungry and watch her eat,
both our plates full, no appetite
for anything beyond medicine pumped in and out of our stomachs,
sweet and thick with artificial flavors
to help it go down;
I sleep a little less, let her mood
decide where I go for the night,
switch my side of the bed twice a week
to keep up, change directions
to fit around her frail body;
The moon sits high in the sky,
washes our faces in a dark glow—
we hide in the cover of one less sunset,
and I leave the porch step on bare feet
to walk her home.