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Unbedded

by Carrie Albert


Mom imagines they still live
at home and Dad can drive. She forgets
how he kicks her onto the floor.
The nurses tell me I must replace
their queen with two hospital beds.
Dad dreams of golden circles.
 
He wants to return to his maker.
Limbs turn purple. He curls,
cannot swallow. Damp cloth brings
water to closed lips.
Nurses and aides gather
like angels. Mom wants to stay.
She says, No one should
die alone. Separate beds, still together,
they sleep through. The hinge,
his jaw, opens.
 
He becomes hunger without body.
He still has a good appetite,
yet doesn't answer.  He is at work
again. I hate when he leaves me
here at school. She ventures out
to the common area, to help
others less able. She opens
one’s book, offers another a fork
or spoon. He becomes sorrow
without bone, ghost who still calls.
She needs a new chair,
with arms so she can stand.
She wants a desk, the one
with curves. His space becomes
pen and blank paper, empty
drawers, the patient wait.

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Carrie Albert is Writer-Artist in Residence at both Penhead-Press and ink sweat & tears. Her poetry has recently appeared in Grey Sparrow, HEArt, Earth's Daughters, cahoodaloodaling among many others. She lives in Seattle.