“Sylvia,” “Go, Gentle,” and “When It is Time,” Poems by Robert Fanning

Sylvia

Of course, I’d think of Plath
every time I’d see her—
that lanky, black, sweet old cat

at New Hope Assisted Living,
who’d lie, draped across the couch,
or curl like a shadow in a patch

of sun, watching residents come
and go, pushing walkers or squinting
out windows for hours, at distances

only old eyes can measure.
You couldn’t stand her, or any cat,
keeping your door shut all day long,

even though Sylvia, like most
women around you, knew soon
to keep her distance, entering only

the rooms of those who’d give her love.
One afternoon, as we sat out on
the back deck, you scoffed like

a slighted girl as Sylvia padded toward
us, leaping up into my welcome lap.
Long before your eyes began to fade,

you couldn’t see her, never able to look
at anything dark or anything you didn’t love.
When you entered hospice, suddenly

Sylvia couldn’t stay away, standing
on her hind legs, scratching at your
closed door for days. Every night, she’d

sit in the hallway, peering into the strip
of light beneath. As if she sensed it was
your time to go. Leave it to Sylvia to know.

*

Go, Gentle
—after Dylan Thomas

Let all your gentle brightness go with age
where all our ages go. Mother, goodnight.
The dying light is gone. You needn’t rage.

You knew that every sky was one more page
your lightning words would cross. Without a fight—
let all good gentle brightness go. With age,

good women never fail. They take each stage
to dance. At last, give one frail wave in spite
of dying light. It’s gone. Do not rage

at the wild sun’s flight, nor try in vain to cage
the hours left to sing. You sang despite.
You let your gentle brightness go with age.

From birth there is no blind, no camouflage;
a woman holds the grave within her sight.
In dying, a light is born. I will not rage

or weep. Let memory be heritage,
your life my carried lamp against the night.
Let all your gentle brightness go with age.
The dying light is gone. You needn’t rage.

*

When It is Time

We lift the feather box
my wife placed under your bed

during hospice. She lays
a long white eagle feather

on the sheet over your sleeping
chest, a gray heron feather

along the length of your legs.
Bowing over you, I open

my arms wide, rest my cheek
on your belly, my first sky.

__________________________________

From All We Are Given We Cannot Hold. Used with the permission of the publisher, Dzanc Books. Copyright © 2026 by Robert Fanning.