2.20.08

Night and you lengthen yourself
out in a long curl, bend and sigh at my
light touch, breaking the heaviness
of dying.
At 7:43, our time, the moon
begins to wrap herself in Earth's shroud.
I pull the blanket tighter to your body.
You kick out.
Confinement isn't the point.
Inch-by-inch the inner shadow spreads.
Your breathing comes in sharp
notes-- gasps, rasps. My every nerve
shocks in response, although I fight

not to jump, I cannot stop.
The moon has entered her blood red phase.
She floats resplendent in blocked sunlight.
I try to think of a lullaby.
I sing disjointed, discolored sounds to you,
notes that carry, waver, and sink.
You turn and look up at me,
and I hear the last rush of your breath
escape into the eclipse.