There is a stillness to a body
no longer breathing, a stillness
so solid it seems not even light
can escape – a stillness
on the verge of movement
that will never come.

How is it possible to pass from life
to death and leave behind a body
so familiar it cannot be recognized?
How do you speak to this phantom
who only minutes ago had asked
for water, complained about the sore
on his hip? I remember him
moving his fingers in the air
as he spoke – an echo of broad gestures
he made only a few days ago.

His life dwindled slowly but quickly
enough to watch and still sense
the missing parts of movements
he no longer made, the stillness
that stays locked in place
where a person once lived.