Joan Margarit

Your hands are her entire past:
thirty years of love held in your palms.
You have watched over her the whole night through
and you lie down on the bed beside her,
with your breast against her back
and your face rubbing her tired hair.
You hug her and you talk softly
while you caress her.
These are the final nights. You feel the heat
of her worn-out body you know so well.
In death you will learn how to take care of her.
She has always been a child: watch over her sleep,
which is coming to look more and more, and more,
like the deep dark of joy
where she is falling, into your hands.