Marguerite

Focused and remote
like a Himalayan climber,

you grasp my thumb
with strong fingers,

your legs bowing under
the pack of your chest.

The cotton hospital hat
frames your dark face,

and when your eyes slide
open, they are deep,

as you contemplate
the swish of your blood,

the ticking of each cell.

I look and look at you,
and listen, breathless—

As a child, I was allowed
to hold my father's watch

in my hands. I dared
to imagine it mine.