Ina

I was lying in bed reading a poem when I thought of Ina
the poem itself didn’t remind me of her
but reading it did
(and lying in bed,
especially)

I thought of her reading poems in bed
and reading books and reading the New Yorker
(at the time I was reading many books
too
but no poems and no
New Yorker)

all she ever did was sit and read
because she was old and sick and nearly
immobile

all day she read and smoked cigarettes and drank apple vermouth
and because she only allowed herself
these latter two vices
she never ate cake or chocolate
(I thought, why stop at two? but that's
another story)

so each day any trace of fat that was left (which
wasn’t much)
would fall off her skin and her bones
until there was nothing much else to lose
except movement and energy (and what
you’d call
life)

all day she sat in her bed and read
and never left her apartment
from her window she could see the ice when it was cold
and she could taste her sweat when it was summer
but other than that she felt
the seasons
only through books and poems and the New Yorker

and time
she felt passing only
on her skin and in her bones
(and sometimes also in my new hair
or in my
new clothes)

and when I had to leave Ina
I called and wrote and sent pictures
(of travels and
children and
parties)
but she never wrote back
because the pen was too heavy
and the effort
too
extreme

then one day she died
and I almost cried
and I wanted nothing more
but to cry
and cry harder
but I was far away
and it had been so long
and every time I’d called she’d gotten
softer and
quieter

so instead I just felt a
softer sadness
in a quiet
drought of tears

and several years later
I found myself in bed
among books and poems and the New Yorker
and I wanted nothing more
than to share them all
softly and
quietly
with Ina