My friend, June Gillam, caretaker and long-time spouse of a diabetic mentioned herein, wrote this poem with great love for him. Her shared and devotional intentions are purposely written for all to learn.
After he wheeled his chair in, all independent like
from his morning shower just the other day
and transferred smoothly onto the king-sized bed,
I finished toweling him off and rubbed it dry,
fluffing up the curly golden short hairs it nested in,
resplendent in its pinky glow.
“No gray hairs down here!” I marveled,
bending over my mate of 29 years
to rub my face lightly back and forth
on his sweet soft sausage,
rolling it around
beneath my lips.
Back when we were new –
He in his black leather boots, and
I in my shameless hussy moans –
He would have sprung up tall and hard so fast
I couldn’t have finished the toweling off
before he put to use that splendid package,
with his bull balls slung low,
and banging gently on my bum.
I would cling to his skin
and ride him up the steep sides
of the mountain, onto the high plateau,
leaving my mind behind
in the merciful death of thoughts,
simply flying his horse of many colors
across the vast and lasting mesa.
After each of his blood sugar dramas
like a five-way coronary bypass,
two carotid artery surgeries,
claudication of the legs
and losing a toe here and there
he resumed his relentless and leather-booted interest.
Although requiring some modifications, some assistance
from those little blue pills and from those brown
packages that arrived in the mail with various humming
and buzzing adult toys he wanted to try out.
“I’ll never quit,” he vowed and indeed
each time he rose again, triumphant.
My libido shriveled
as spontaneous flights across the highland mesa
faded into movies in my memory,
and it turned into an unexpected duty to search
to find my shameless hussy’s eager heart.
“I am still interested,” he says today,
but that soft pink sausage resting like a newborn’s
tells a different story.
“Did you think I would give up?”
“I had lately come to hope exactly that
this year since his near death, two-month stay
in ICU with kidney failure and dialysis,
open wound dressings, and half year of physical therapy
since the amputation of his left leg, above the knee.
“I sent away for a book on sex for the disabled,”
he says, “but it hasn’t arrived yet.”
One day soon, the mail will come –
I’m digging deep into the great divide of time
to find my shameless hussy long-departed self”
Come back, come back, come back!
I cry out to her.
– I can’t do this all alone!