And last, we washed his body
Last, we rolled it to one side of the bed, rocked it gently back, the long
length of him settled now onto a clean sheet
Last, I followed a crease on his forehead with my finger
Last, his daughter washed his hair, massaging his scalp, sloshing
the soapy water
Last, his son sponged his shoulders
And I, each finger; he had beautiful hands
Last, his thighs, his knees, his shin blades
Last, we washed his feet, their soles a smooth new silk
And I for the last time his genitals, still warm as a woods-earth nestle
of wild orchids
His no-breath-now stayed sweet
Last, his eyebrows, bushy, outrageous, a fleck of water caught there
bright in the lamplight, as if a snowflake from a walk we took
years back across a white field had freshly fallen
I don’t know who crossed his arms across his chest
And last, he was warm when I kissed a mouth that would not close
nor speak, nor allow us to enter
the mystery of his being beyond us now, no crossing that threshold
And the silence in the room was, as it always is, ordinary and vast