You wish this had come to you
as you watched her labor

through the last days of hard
breaths, focusing on the in

and the out, the lengthening
between: that the breath

has no body. It is not our home.
We let each one go into air,

which gives us another breath
until they no longer come.

We practice breathing all
the days of our lives,

befriending it, coming to
know it, resting in it—

as she did, each breath
a goodbye—before she

separated from the body
that wanted to live. But

whether we realize it
or not, we practice parting

from life with every exhale—
as we must, as we are

meant to do.