The Queen of Chicago

The Queen of Chicago
was taken to hospice today
Did I not love his sister
I would not have known.

A week. Or two. And even this
a miracle. I stood with her on
Thanksgiving Eve, holding his hand,
the hand of a man I'd never known,
breathing in rhythm with her and
the respirator. He looked startlingly
like Van Gogh. Fine blue veins surfacing
in pale pellucid skin, rough red beard;
skin drawn against the bone of his skull.

Hands flaccid and warm in ours
we stood, blue-paper clad and masked
like towers to either side of his bed
just out of the reach of the monster
machines that ate and breathed for him.

An only son, an only brother, blessed uncle,
a very special godfather,
beloved partner, mate. Who had
already taken his last step,
and when he waked, was only
to know with certainty
it was to say goodbye.

The decades of battle
resolved in this one, kind, word:
palliative.

Like the battles of his childhood,
it was never a fight he
was going to win.