The night my mama called--a Thursday night--

which meant, certainly, something was wrong,

you took my hand, sitting there on the bed

not interrupting while she told jokes and

I laughed   and I told jokes   and she laughed,

both of us trying to cry so soft, maybe

the other one could pretend not to hear.

You took my hand and held on tight while

my tears ran down your shoulder and mama

told another joke in my left ear.

You didn't make me explain, just held me

and took away some of the fear of dying.

The day they were shouting my name,

everyone looking at me like I was crazy

or had forgotten somehow to dress right

like all those nightmares from my childhood

you put your hand on my neck and squeezed

stayed close to me   stayed close

and put your fear in another place.