A Sort of Nocturne

Pretend some moments could arrive

without tension, without strife.

Pretend we haven’t already spent long hours

driving down the state

with the semis pulled over for the night,

speculating

on your daughter’s life, and her daughter’s life.

Pretend we haven’t endured long days

and longer nights

in counsel with nurses and neurosurgeons

and a son-in-law, every night

clenching our jaws for sleep, everyday

clenching our knuckles

with each blare of the telephone.

Pretend it could be so late at night

the phone wouldn’t ring

to let us know she’s returned to the hospital.

Pretend there’s no dilemma over

whether I stay behind to keep our life afloat,

or if I go with you.

It’s almost seasonal—a cycle without end.

So pretend we have time enough tonight

to scan a clear, shimmering sky

for a roving satellite, to watch

stars dispense their cores, knowing

each luminous spark,

each luminous moment, will be followed

by an inexhaustible dark.