I hated it, after he died, that we would sometimes
leave him alone in the room. For months there had
been someone with him, whether he was asleep
or awake, in coma, someone, and now
we would stand outside the door and he was
alone—as if all we had cared about was his consciousness,
this man who had so little consciousness, who was
90% his body. I hated
the way we were treating him like garbage, we would
burn him, as if
only the soul mattered. Who was that,
if not he, lying there dried and abandoned.
I was ready to fight anybody
who did not treat that body with respect, just
let some medical students make a joke about his liver, I would
deck them, I so wanted to have someone to deck,
and if we were going to burn him, then
I wanted this man
burned whole, don't
let me see that arm on anyone in
Redwood City tomorrow, don't take that
tongue in transplant or that unwilling eye.
So what if his soul was gone, I knew him
soulless all my childhood, saw him
lying on the couch in the unlit end of the
living room on his back with his mouth open
and nothing there but his body. So I stood by him
in the hospital and stroked him, touched his
arm, his hair, I did not think he was there
but this was the one I had known anyway,
this man made of rich substance,
this raw one, like those early beings who
already lived on this earth before God
took that special clay and made his own set of people.