Room 301

-All right, you may come in now.
They had dressed you in white.
I held your young hand for a time.
It didn’t respond. Never again.
The hand that so often stroked my hair
lately, since the summer. All the way
from my forehead to my neck. As if you were looking
for something.
Did you know?
(Your hand, your small hand,)
The other one they’ve laid on your breast,
curved around a rose. Red on white. A bride
but no mine.
Then the time is up. Someone’s waiting.
(Face, forehead, hands,)
I walk toward the door;
northern lights, swarns of stars-
be open.
Hand on the doorknob.
The final little click.
Steps in the corridor. Clip-clop
clip-clop. That’s how
a life ends.