This poem has been haunting me for days
it seems. Since that afternoon. Are they fears
that kept me silent? Perhaps. Something sears
through me. (Her face above your chest.) It says
shhh… it’s better to be safe. My dears,
I need your help. My hands are cold. The ways —
so dark and steep, the paths so cloaked in greys;
and is this rain (the falling of her tears)?
We bent over you. Our hands might have brushed
and the contact left me trembling, weak
with the urge to raise my hand, the fierce desire
to touch her face. I would not have rushed
but lingered, savoring the curve of cheek —
and what would she have done? Would it be rain,
or fire?
*****
M.A. Mohanraj
October 3, 1998
East of Temple Square, Salt Lake City