witness

looking out at the horizon

its all so hard to take in at times –

like on that beautiful saturday in the middle of  december

when we drove to his house around two in the afternoon

and stood in silence as we took the left of two elevators

alone to the thirteenth floor

where we slowly walked down the hall

holding hands and i stared at the worn persian carpet beneath our feet

while you opened his door and i already knew it was over

he was six feet under but still on the ground

and there was nothing you could have done even though you

tried, tried, tried to give him air

beating his white naked chest as blood painted your hands

and you cried out ‘dad, no’ on your knees

like a child

yet i, suspended, let the seconds evaporate

as if time weren’t a train running on schedule

watching your face disappear as you held your dead father in your arms thinking –

you might have made it in time had you spent a minute less

brushing your teeth or

chewing your breakfast or

walking or

talking or

anything at all and i never thought i would have to watch you do this

as adrenaline ran through your miserable blood like a raging river

i didn’t belong here in this delicate moment

as red became the color of your lips and the only color i could see

while i felt that watching was a sin imposed by 

every second that slipped and contoured the lines of your face

and the pungent smell of death dragged you away

for what could I have said to your sad empty eyes except

‘here, sit, have a sit of water…’?