Poetry Month Celebration Day 12

Last week I wrote an essay about my Mom. It was the anniversary of her passing. Today is also kind of the anniversary. She died on Good Friday. I have lost a few people on Good Friday and not being a good Catholic it has left me with less than positive feelings about the day. I am told it if someone has to go, then what better day to do so, but no, I cannot bring myself to that. So I have made a semi-casual tradition of writing for Mom today. This one isn’t very pleasant, but it is necessary, for me.

Curing Her To Death

You never forget the sight
of your first catheter
plastic sticking out from the flesh
of a loved one
making them look like a broken android
in a dystopian sci-fi flick

It doesn’t seem real
even if
especially if
it is your parents

Or maybe you just don’t want to believe
maybe you need to separate it
from your experience
so the truth of it
doesn’t punch you in the face

Mom is broken
and they have to invade her
with needles
with clear tubes
and with medicine
to keep her from crumbling away

and you get angry
because it is not working
but they keep doing it
and she withers
like a crumpled invitation
to a wedding
or graduation

They unmake her before you
and you swear that damn catheter
is an open vent
letting the very air out of her
deflating her
stealing her
pulling her away before she is really gone


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