Dead Eye

In the movies it is graceful,
a peace sign of two fingers,
a gentle sweep of
the hand – but for you, no.

No, you wouldn’t close your eyes,
four people tried. I went last
lightly pushing on each eyelid
one-by-one. Still, no.

You watched us all as you were
wheeled from your house of
sixty years, still worried we might
put the quiche dish in the wrong cupboard.

Or afraid now that the children will
tear up the mattresses, or tear
down the walls hunting for forgotten cash.

We watched you leaving,
our eyes open and we did tear up
one-by-one.