She enters the house on wings
aiming to land discreetly
among the flocks of mothers
lovers, neighbors, sons.

She carries buckets, dressings, diapers.
Ready to lay bare with a soft approach.
Gathering offerings, blending with soap,
sips of water, quiet touch.

They need knowledge of a kind
not previously imagined. They want
to know when. And how to wait. What to say.
Things the doctor forgot to explain.

She tells them what she sees: weeks-to-months,
days-to-weeks, hours-to-days.
Once, she said: Now, right now.
And sent a gangly grandson

To fetch the preacher, as she stood
by the bed holding the hand of
this 62-year old man with fuzzy hair
and heartbreak eyes, wishing that his

Daughter would glide into the room
instead of calling everyone to Come quick!
She finally had to say, He’s gone.
The child burst open then.

Although he wasn’t really gone.
His something was still in that room.
She could feel it hover and lift. Yes, lift
right out of his body. A warmth, a presence.

Still wanting voice.

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1 Response to >Hours-to-days

  1. MirIam says:

    >Such a heartbreaking and lovely poem. I suppose like life is – both wonderful and tragic at the same time.

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