Sunday, June 30, 2013

Summer Sonnet 43: Hospice Care

I want to rip the tubes out of his skin
and pound his chest. Life! Life! Life! You will rise
from soaked mattress, invoking hearts of men
turn diagnosis to laughable lies.

Instead I pat his biblical white hair,
long lustre locks from his bed-bound nest.
He yawns like a cat enjoying pet care
that has removed a moment of loneliness.

I fetch him a glucose control meal shake,
adjust bed so he can sit up to drink.
His stomach convulsions tremor and quake
from atrophied muscles starting to blink.

 At first sip, he'll let out thirsty-quenching moan
as his skin resumes a more human tone.

- By Aurin Squire



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