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 isat 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.
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.