Elegy Begun in July
       

1.
Come back says my father
to the ruby-throated
hummingbird studying

the dahlias on the deck
where we drink our coffee.
In the house his wife says

something to her hospice nurse
that makes them both laugh.
This moment has little

market value until you add up
the cost of red nectar
and dahlias my father bought

to battle the reluctance
of hummingbirds.
Come back. His voice pebbles

with exasperation.
The grammar of his grief
is full of false imperatives.

2.
The dying have fewer rules
than the dead, breath
anchoring in their chests

as the rest of the body
grows lonely for oxygen
like landscapes grow lonely

for shadows on overcast
days. The dying have
sharper eyes than I expected,

gaze of circling hawks,
all hunger without
burden of intellect.

3.
Lucid means clear,
as if the dying
are less transparent,

and maybe they are.
Maybe when we forget
ourselves our bodies fill

with clouds. What I mean
to say is I'm afraid
of the dying—who might

say anything at all—
though not of the dead.
I will sit with a body

whenever I'm needed,
but if the dying
want to talk, I'm mute

as the row of boulders
my father planted
under the hackberries,

a spine to keep
the weeds in place.

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Copyright © 2020 Becka McKay All rights reserved
from Beloit Poetry Journal
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission