An Ending

She coughs
and heaves a breathless goodbye
into the bedside phone.

Her lungs
damp, bloated, sacked honeycomb
wheeze with vanishing bees.

The room
of sensors and startling noise
has not air to float upon.

slakes a thirst for breathable sky
and calms the panic within.

The shame
of living, of death smiling,
savoring smoke and ash.

Eyes closed
she imagines her son, boy,
man, precious evermore.

Beautiful white, red, and black
from a husband who waits.

spinning in galaxies far,
with summer lightning bugs.

And then
it is upon her, the moment,
dreaded, practiced, boundless.

We run
through soft sands lit by moonlight,
now tumbling under waves.

All that matters
And all that happens

The absence of pain and hunger
the end of struggle and story
mark an indifferent,
yet decent,


10 thoughts on “An Ending

  1. bronwyn

    Have you ever read the Sylvia Plath poem, “The Surgeon at 2 a.m.”? Fairly well known… If you haven’t read it, you should.

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