1
An
almost, circumstance. Sustained
by
intensive care unit, my father’s
withered
muscles. First the right hand, legs, the lungs;
a
machine to administer breath. On Carling Avenue,
flush
in fluorescent polish,
an
eternity of blankets, stainless repetition.
Time
simultaneously collapsed,
suspends.
He will not return home, but
for
singular purpose. To finally land; to comprehend
where
he once stood.
2.
Pinned,
to the weather. If he might or could,
these
endless meetings
with
social worker, hospital staff. He will not return home,
but
might, yes. Texts out
responses,
queries. Sister
administers,
paperwork: wheelchair,
hospital
bed, BiPAP machine,
health
workers. His medical history
goes
viral. What else. An updated proposal
invites.
Bag
by
the ready.
3.
Sleep
apnea, diabetes,
colon
cancer, triple bypass, short term
kidney
dialysis,
multiple
sclerosis. Worn, our hearts crush.
Wherein,
his lungs. He sleeps
all
morning, and another year. A blood clot,
cyst;
thigh-high, the muscle. Set
the
scanners on. Attempt
to
drain. It doesn’t, won’t. Home plans
suspend.
Demarcate, black marker
lineates.
The daily whiteboard calendar
by
his bed is obsolete
for
half a day.
4.
Imagine,
his options: history held
the
iron lung. Lists, a sentence. His strength
will
not return. Will ours? My sister’s
homemade
contraband, a
chicken
wrap, delights. We offer strawberries,
raspberries,
daily paper. His hospital flatscreen,
suspended
in air,
shimmers
local news. The only
difference,
amid
the
daily bleed.
5.
I
am aware of my silence
on
this matter.
No comments:
Post a Comment