from tender years you took me for granted.
but still i deigned to wander through your lungs.
while you were sleeping soundly in your bed.
(your drapes were silver wings; your shutters flung)
i drew the poison from the summer’s sting,
and eased the fire out of your fevered skin.
i moved in you and stirred your soul to sing;
and if you’d let me, i would move again.
i’ve danced ‘tween sunlit strands of lover’s hair;
helped form the final words before your death.
i’ve pitied you and plied your sails with air;
gave blessing when you rose upon my breath.
and after all of this, i am amazed,
that i am cursed far more than i am praised.