Mingled

How is it 

that the deepest pangs of joy--

pangs because the deepest joy

makes you inhale sharp,

 breath catching in your throat--

are mixed and mingled, 

swirled into oneness

with the heart-stabs of losing?

How is it that the birth of a new love

comes hand-in-hand with memories 

of an old love that stretches

from earth to heaven now, 

 where there is no need of a house

of flesh and bones 

to keep the spirit tethered? 

How is it that there is death in birth?

As the hands give comfort 

to one strong with living 

they remember the patterns 

they traced on the back 

of another weak with dying. 

He spoke of my hands 

softly, slowly, with a voice 

that could barely pierce the air, 

lungs finding the act 

of breathing in and out 

more than they could bear.

How is it that the deep reservoir 

of loving holds the strength of now

and the fragility of then, 

and how is it that a heart 

can find itself 

so full?