The Maynard
Spring 2016

Falcon oHara

10 words repeated

My angel, my angel of mercy, my good neighbour Michel Bluebird, all 110 pounds of him, all five foot two of him, brings me cherries, a Bartlett pear, and Coconut Bliss my two days in post gall bladder surgery hospital room. He brings me novelties, besides the novelty of his presence: his extravagant simplicity, his polka dot bow ties, his lime green sneakers, his dog like loyalty, the fidelity of his verse, reading me poetry, ransoming his passion through thick, black-framed spectacles as I struggle to keep from laughing out the stitches in my side.

My good neighbour, Michel Bluebird, his dogged love, his madcap humour, my two-spirited nightingale is dying of AIDS as I ransom my passion through the last immaculate moments we share in a different ward of the same hospital, windows filled with afternoon light. I bring him cherries, a Bartlett pear, pass on the Coconut Bliss—he couldn’t keep it down—all five foot two of him, not even a hundred pounds of him, my angel of mercy, my good neighbour.

So little to do at the end, holding his hand, bathing his forehead with rose water, remembering the moments, sacred and profane: the laughter, the vanilla pistachio fudge, the Hallowe’en costumes, the shrieking through ill-insulated walls of mad passion with his lovers, the novelty of his echo in my mind, my heart, my good neighbour Michel Bluebird, all thirty-two years of him, all song and poetry of him, dog loyal, the fidelity of his simple, heartfelt love.