Friday, January 29, 2010


The swish of doors,
gurneys sliding along
floors polished
with blood and pain.

Searching room
by room down
this cold corridor.
Nurses draped

in bright colors
fluttering over the
beds of the helpless,
their chairs filled

with the specters
of the bereft.
Dad says she's
in a coma

be prepared.
We find her, not
in the dignified
sleep of the movies.

She's gesturing wildly,
her eyes hanging on the
precipice of speech,
crying, I'm here,

I'm here, with lips
waxed shut with
with the dull flame
of stupor.

Starched white coats
tell us this road
may only go
one way.

I don't know how
to process this
In the hospital

gift shop,
I buy a

copyright sherry obsheatz

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