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.
Morphine
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.
Flowers.
Beautiful white, red, and black
from a husband who waits.
Starstuff
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
doesn’t.
And all that happens
matters.
The absence of pain and hunger
the end of struggle and story
mark an indifferent,
yet decent,
finish.
So who wrote this, Dr. C? If it was you, I reckon you’ve just won your own prize. Outstanding. Thanks.
Thank you 🙂
I recuse myself from consideration in my own contest!
Yep, it’s first prize material, fer sure!
I’ll give it some thought; but I think you’ve set the bar too high. Beautiful.
Very touching.
Wow, I’m glad I didn’t read that before I sent my entry in! 🙂
Dr. Charles, thank you for doing this contest. Big fun!
one word:wow.
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.
This is beautiful.