Twitching Limbs

They were married altogether
for fifty-one years—or at least,
they would have been if she had made it
past Thanksgiving.

Instead, she went to sleep, and then
her limbs stopped twitching.
She did not go gently and
the night was hell for him.

The house was always full of flowers
but he asked mourners not to send any.
I think he used to keep them because
they always matched her eyes

when the lighting was just right.
He liked to dress her in pastels
and pinks too bright to keep her hidden.
They seemed to announce to the world

that here sat a woman who once walked
in living color and never needed
any oxygen tubes until now. Her last steps
were to the port-o-potty sitting

two feet from her chair. She often
slipped if he wasn’t watching.
If old age should burn, and
old age should rave,

he was left with rage enough
for both of them. His tears
were all the fiercer for how long
they had to wait.