As the fourteenth year of your disability 
and the twenty-second year of our marriage 
comes to an end, here are some words I say 
for you, my bedridden wife, every visit, though 
we neither can say you know my meaning: 

Perhaps what we call death is actually an 
abrupt waking, I whisper, for which we are 
all preparing. I do pray that even eyes-closed 
and mouth-speechless, you are doing this. 

After all our years, the struggle along our path, 
I hope when you finally tire enough of dying, 
you shall discover that you may live there, 
on the other side of death, that there is love 

on the other side of death, and you will find 
the strength to walk across death’s dark 
territory, however fluid and dangerous it seems, 
to find at last that one light that belongs to you. 

—An earlier version of this poem appeared in the 30/30 Project at Tupelo Press (July 2024).

Bio: Thomas A. Thomas