They didn’t close his eyes. They didn’t moisten a cloth
to wash the whorl of his ear or pause to reshape his mouth—
left him gaping for morning. They didn’t remove sheets
dotted red or fill his hospital room with lilies and mums,
brushing white hair from his forehead. He didn’t come home
in a chariot, didn’t lift above earth on wings, one last time
catching the wind to watch people sleep or bustle, till soil,
read the Sunday paper. He might’ve flown along the riverbank,
skimmed swaying trees, heard branches groan. On wings,
he would have soared. He didn’t leave with feathers. If he rose,
his was a different flight. From his final bed, he gazed
beyond us, no expression or doubt. He didn’t close his eyes.
–
Keli Osborn lives in western Oregon, where she works with community organizations, gardens, writes, and walks and walks. Her poems have been published by journals including The Timberline Review and San Pedro River Review, and in several anthologies. She’s slowly learning to play the drums.
© 2023, Keli Osborn
Halfway Down the Stairs 