The Song of the Unicorn

I remember feeding you and talking,
in the silence that the stroke
left you for speech, trying to tell you
what I had tried for decades
to put in words:
you're my sweet treasure, you're the Gift
Love gave to me, and in this tiny room,
with nothing to show for hope,
the only faith of Man
expressed in Food Stamps,
as I bathe you, and for you, open the window
to birdsong, and fresh, spring air,
no man's riches compare with mine.

It was so hard on you;
so little you could give,
save what you did:
trying to start all over,
willing to learn how to kiss me again.
When you stopped breathing,
you gave that little gasp
as if at something just revealed,
and though I found your heartbeat gone
and was left there in the cold,
begging with my fist, I still remember
what you told me of something just revealed.

The day we met,
we chose us, each, the other:
when you woke, bleeding in your brain,
and the doctors and the nurses said
you would not think again,
I told you what I tell you now:
I will not leave you,
and where you go
I will follow:
you're my sweet treasure,
you're the Gift
Love gives to me.