Finding Joy

One of these mornings,
she won't wake up.
Sometime at night
when stars are shining,

the half-moon high,
she will take her last breath,
shallow and light,
skimming the surface of air.

Her eyes will flutter,
she will see moonlight
bathing the living room--
her fleeting hospice,

washing her lover's face with shadow
as he waits supine on the sofa.

Her lungs will deflate,
leaking out into space.
The gravity of breathing
no more

will not be lost on her.
Nothing can dull
her brightness.
Her chest

will weigh down on her
squeezing and squeezing
like the first time
when the womb birthed her
into this world.

Soon she will be wrung
out of this life
and into another.

A vastness
she does not remember.