The word sepsis is small and round in your mouth,
Hardly spoken at all
But in my head it’s large with sharp edges
That begin to cut your life away.
Away from you,
Away from me,
Away from words and sunlight and flowers on a hill.
Away from laughter and tears and walks after dark.

Your lungs are full of fluid that muffle your sweet voice.
Your head is full of putty that bounces when you walk
And takes away your thoughts.

But oh how I hear your pain, the need to be carried for once,
I would cuddle you in my arms, I would sit by your side,
I would bring the glass of water, hold your hand while you cried.
Wait with you while you died.

I think about his lips pressed against mine,
How our fingers would feel deeply entwined
And then my heart rings like a hollow bell
And it’s full of feelings I try to quell.
For they are too painful to truly feel.
If I let them out I will never heal.
I sit and knit and watch TV
But I’m really remembering how it used to be
With him at my side
Till the day he died.
I picture him lying in a hospital bed
Twitching and turning and shaking his head.
The monitors glowing and beeping,
Me in a chair, knitting and weeping.
The swish of the curtain as the doctor comes in
I’m tired of the look on his face that’s so grim.
There is nothing to do but wait and watch
As the one I Iove succumbs to death notch by notch.

We each gave the other
the gift of time.
To me a pocket watch
To him a clock that chimed.
Little did we know they were
Ticking down the time till
He would be gone.
Tick tock, tick tock.

Years later I found him on the bed
Thrashing wildly and
Banging his head.
His eyes were closed
His face was red.
Ticktockticktockticktock

The ambulance came
The horn was blaring.
Into the back we went.
I held his hand and felt his pulse
Tickity tock tickity tock

They wheeled him down
The hall so fast into a white
Room at last.
His breathing quieted to the
Beeping of the machines
Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick

For days I sat besides his bed
Hoping he would awake
Wishing him not dead.
But then his breathing began
To slow, how could I know
But by the ticking of the clock
T i c k
              T
                  O
                       C

Coming home from the pharmacy
the reassuring weight
of pills in my purse.
One hundred sweet tarts
waiting to be eaten
one by one.
Sometimes
I pour the bottle
out onto the bed
and count them.
I line the bed with
neat rows of red.
Little brick houses
I can walk into
anytime.
Safety for the month

He is here and
there around me.

Stands by me
as I cook
up a dish
he’ll never taste.

Follows me to the
yard, where
I pluck tangelos
he’ll never squeeze.

Sits snuggled
up against me,
watching TV shows
he’ll never see.

Complains that
I feed the dogs
off my plate,
steals the blankets,
hides the mustard,
says I put too many
beans in the chili

And I won’t, just
won’t let him go.

Follows me in sleep.
Elbows me at night.
I turn to shake him...

He’s gone.
It’s turned first light.

And still I miss him so...

My father’s hand
Holds mine tight.
Rubbing his thumb
Over my own.
As if that
Will bring her
Back.
As if that
Alone
Will stop the
Tears.
His eyes are down
But mine are on her
Face.
I cannot look away.
Rubbing his thumb
Over my own-
A magic lamp
To bring her back.
I will
Her broken heart
To mend,
Pumping blood
To warm her limbs-
Wait for sewn lips
To gasp apart
******* air ******* life
And all the while
The preacher talks,
He rubs my
Thumb
The magic lamp.

Golden apples, mouth size
morsels fall from the tree
into my father’s outstretched hand.

He mourns the pies my mother
will not make from this
unknown harvest.
The many apples she will not
peel in one long coiling strip.
The meaty fruit enters my
father’s mouth, untouched
by her deft blade,
unsweetened by her hand.

And as the frost lies
upon the apples golden
skin turning it first dull then
rusty brown, she lies beneath
the now cold ground fading
as the apples do.

And flocks of blackbirds
fill the sky, alighting
on branches bare of leaves
to peck and pluck the
fetid fruit that never touched her hand.