When the call came I left

Without saying goodbye,

Not knowing it was already

Too late for any gestures

Of hope or departure,

Words I'd never practiced

Or thought I would need

When three days before

The scalpel had cut away

The flesh of her disease

They had found, and they

Not knowing the hidden

Tired part of her heart

Giving in, giving up.

Tomorrow there will be

Rituals to be respected,

Duty and despair of decisions

To be made as she would,

Putting off and then on

The beginning of grieving,

Writing those last words

I will say to her silence.

But tonight I cannot go

Back home again where

In my rush I left a knife

Still piercing the heart

Of a peach.