Lava Dust

Every day, each drop of his blood was strung

Like red pearls, through the transparent tubing

Of the dialysis machine, his old

Body diabetically unable

To wring out its own refuse or heal sores

In his feet. Muriel, his wife, was his

Attendant, lifting him into the place

Where she coaxed the needle into his vein.

On one of those times she must have told him

Of our anniversary soon to come;

A year since they were guests at our wedding.

In Hawaii, leis are more than greeting.

Yet when Muriel told me she would string

A lei for my wife, I wasn’t thinking

That is was any more than a gesture

Like the cozy hellos I laid on her desk

Knowing her daily routine had layered

Upon her a crust like hardened lava

Over fertile soil. I didn’t know she’d

Ask her husband to hobble through the beds

Of white ginger, gathering the youngest

Petals by the hundreds on a foot festered

Enough to be amputated in just

One year. What can be done with such a gift?

A photograph of my wife wearing the lei

Strung with petals as pure as aloha

Remains in an album to remind us

That those flowers emerged from lava dust.