" Home Dying"
The birds play hooky today, knowing
their music can salve no hearts.
In their place, Tennessee Ernie sings
of God, sun, moon, and stars.
Dishes tink, your attendants retire
to talk of life -- yours, theirs,
specifics I cannot hear over the wheeze
of the humidifier that wants to die with you.
Puffs of fog fall to the floor, gather
into clouds, roll out of sight. Heaven
comes to visit, cannot wait
to see the brightness that fills our lives.
A candle by your bed burns a moth's wings,
leaves it to writhe. A dozen more
light the fireplace, makeshift grotto for St. Jude.
Each creak in the plank floor
makes me shudder, glance over my shoulder.
Death cannot have you yet.
Your mother and sisters wasted
in an old folks' home, but you were afraid
of the smell, gloom, constant chatter
in hallways cluttered with walkers and wheelchairs.
I raise your bed, lean closer
so I can read your breathing lips
made blurry by morphine.
Who are you talking to in that place
known by junkies, the desperate, the dying?
I put delicious words in your mouth,
"I love you better than a fried pie,"
just like you always told me.
The last dry breaths leave, your body
continues to make the motions,
breathe out, breathe in, breathe out. For five minutes
I pray your body will stop
the cruel pantomime that gives me hope.
The others gather to touch you.
We hold you to the mattress, pin your
essence to the bed, to the house, to us.
© 2003 Jake (Jason Jones)
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