The Fare Forward Poetry Competition: First Place

said St. John, pointing to the Christ as he slips out
of frame, just as you are beginning to fade
in your frame—      your body, so restless, twitches
with impulses unattached to corporeal desires, as if rising

to walk those Alsatian corridors, sit beneath painted panels
in the Isenheim hospital ward, pray for the brothers afflicted,
grieved by St. Anthony’s fire, blackening
extremities, enflaming the mind—      overwhelmed in ecstasies,
I sense you are nearer now to them, though I am at your bedside.

Your mustache is neatly trimmed as if you are joining friends
for dinner, ready to chat over Crêpes Louisiane. A nurse, perhaps,
has done this barbering for you. A small kindness, honoring an elder.

Does your body know your mind has already started packing
up rooms, sealing boxes full of things you will not need? Does
it know where you spend your time, some elsewhere, unmapped –

I take your hands in mine,
such large hands
enfolding, holding your
life in proclamation.