I stand at this hospital bed watching
a once lovely woman, body shriveled
by leukemia, her worn lungs catching
air in staggered lunges, hair disheveled
by bands from her oxygen mask. She sleeps
that sleep of the dying, tense and labored.
Years ago, I studied my mother, deep
in her rasping coma. How she savored,
though unconscious, our moistening her dry
lips with wet cotton, soothing her forehead
with warm cloth and kisses. We say goodbye
to the dying, not knowing what’s ahead,
with tones of hope. Then gaze in mute surprise
when, in that final breath, their spirits rise.
Roger Armbrust
July 13, 2007
