FOR A FRIEND

I know a woman
who brushes her hair
as though it were a secret.

The mirror is a silver lake of loneliness.

She bristles
with unknowns,
her eyes brown
are things I’ll never forget.

white nightgown, October red sleeps on her fingertips.

Her children’s laughter is
her hope.

They rise with the dawn
and the steely cold
of southern maine.

She’s tough
and pretty,
and has all my attentions-
If only I weren’t ill
I could meet her expectations.

My heart is a ball of fire when I’m near her,
eating a hamburger at the table
lettuce on the corner of my lip.

She has me at night,
when I’m crying
in the bathroom
because the tumors
won’t let things pass.

But it’s,
off-centered,
and ill conceived-

why would such a woman
care about me?
If I can’t know God,
well, at least I know beauty.