By Nora Pasco
For the nurses
The old world rushes by above us as
we wait in the womb of a town howling
for death. All who live have been reborn here.
All who die shudder their last breath without
a word. Visions are birthed — the unbidden
curse of love gives us hearts for second sight
in the strangest places. Your face is old
yet the youngest in this underground wing
where lungs forget to breathe and tongues grow black.
Bouquets of wire uncoil like hungry vines
out of the arms and necks of dying friends
and strangers caught in a sterile silence.
Behind our masks, we have relearned to see
loss and disease, and ask unspeaking for
a moment more, to hold a hand or say
what words we can before the cold passage
of life, of death, of time, of the white hall
snaking quietly to the waiting room.
I crawl through every memory and call
I make; haul the soft weight of loving you
homeward toward mourning. This is the final
time, I tell myself, before returning.
Photo: Wix Media
The views and opinions expressed herein and elsewhere on actionhumanites.com are solely those of the respective author(s) and do not necessarily reflect or represent those of Action Humanities (AH); AH's staff or community partners; Tunxis Community College; Connecticut State Colleges & Universities (CSCU); or the pending Connecticut Community College.
Comments