it took the end of clocks
to bring my last dream
where I'm a movie queen icon
standing in a hospital room door,
hesitating from the taste
of too many hasty decisions,
following the brush of the crinoline underskirts
as they pull me into the dim room
that has always known a touch of evening
to find you in a white bed with white sheets
with your white hair the hidden polar bear on the ice.
your eyes are shuttered by the bruise-circles around them
and I sit my old princess ass down
before reaching out for your hand
and telling you that we shouldn't have waited so long
to call out for the new white thread
to sew up our hearts.
you tell me you know
and we lay out our fears
for that waiting touch
of the surgeon's knife.