for Dan
He struggles to speak, to move his body, to open his eyes
like a moth struggling to escape its own
casing, its wings weakened, its body collapsing
into itself.
This reckoning, an unrising:
It will never fly.
I cannot pry open the cocoon
with a pin.
How can I help his rumbling,
the lowest part of low,
the wrestling of emotions?
But he is not a moth.
He is a man.
And how will he escape to freedom
when he resists my touch on his arm,
a kiss on his forehead when I bend down
to cradle his head?
He punches the air with his
one good fist and growls.