"This is my job," she said,
pushing a spoonful of purred kale
against resisting lips,
shaking his shoulder,
"Wake up, wake up,"
like a stone breaking calm
on a morning lake, 10 p.m.
Over and over, loosening, finally,
the spoon glides through.
I feel the ripples, look away
to the screen up high,
baseball game. He stirs,
moans, sucks the metal.
She smiles, bright-eyed,
cooing, "Yes, dear, good."
I feel the sick, angry
awareness of days spilling into days
like Buffalo's blood
pooling slowly on the Plains.
How long has he been dying
lying in the living room, hospital bed,
existing like a slow-motion sunset
she hopes will hover forever?
Always an arm's length away,
ready to pull him back,
leaps from sleep when he
coughs or hiccups.
For god's sake, let him go,
but she won't,
feeding and feeding
believing each gulp, salvation.
She urges him on,
mouth open and close
like a goldfish breathing,
and when he follows suit,
claims victory
like a defeated ruler,
enemy at the gates.
