My Beautiful Dreams All Fade into the Last

             Family dinner on a winter porch.
        Our table, too large, squeezes us
        against fogged glass. My chair wobbles.
        Others, more privileged, are eating
        inside the house. I complain, but
        someone whispers the man who shares
        the house is sick, it may be cancer.
        The others crowd onto the porch.
        My chair collapses. I reach for
        another, not to sit on but to hold
        the glass of water at my bedside.

        Outstretched, I watch the procession:
        a baby rhino, a zebra, a lion,
        a giraffe swaying its long neck
        like the maestro’s baton. A gnu,
        alone. Behind the animals comes
        a strapping man outfitted for safari,
        his head smoother than marble, his face
        youthful and cold. He commands,
        Spend your last days with me.

        Now the film winds back and the scene
        replays: the solemn parade
        of animals, the white hunter fixing
        me with glacial eyes. And now
        I recognize the porch.
        Aunt Lila’s husband died there
        not long after I was born.