The Poetry Village

It was a Sunday Night and the Hospital was Short Staffed

Hooked to a drip,
she abandons her father’s mizpah ring
into my hand,

falls back onto a pillow
and labours whispers that make no sense.
At midnight, a priest scurries to her bed.

I sit, stand, sit, until a nurse guides me
to a visitor’s room. In darkness,
at two in the morning hot tears slide to my ears,

while an on call surgeon gives her one last chance.
I shiver in the heat of June
and she’s out of it in morphine.

After thirty years of daily offerings,
when I need God, prayers come cold and rote,
pleas remain in my mouth.

A steady voice asks about next of kin,
a pen draws a line across a page
and I taxi home to my daughters.

*

Sometimes I sit with her possessions:
folded paper with one stitch of…

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