Throat is still,
left eye floats upward in an
unimaginable dream.
The left hand
pulls the sheet up to chin.
Little pluckings at mouth’s corner,
then quiet.
Hand grows restless,
reaches to brush away
something unseen,
roams up and down her body at will.
Stubborn in its new dominance,
it has a vitality hopeful
and disturbing,
insists on its small bursts
of searches.
The left arm is busy.
It does not evade my touch,
but imperious, it moves on
without me,
pulling the sheet and knocking away
my murmurings, attempts at comfort.
Right arm has acquiesced.
Peaceful, it will never move again.
