For My Sister Dying

in the off moments
    between telephone calls and students
        fretting at my desk
 
even in those brief instants
    windows, a door opening
        between key strokes
 
I glimpse, again and again
    the weight, the sheer volume
        of your grief
 
this work I flee to
    I force my hands to
        is a small room
 
a cabin on the beach; it is dark
    the windows open on the ocean
        salt spray reaches even to the door


The Wisconsin Review.  Vol. 38, Issue I, Fall 2003, p. 23.