I tell my brother
about a picture
he will love
of our mother
at twenty-five.
*
He will love
with his eyes
and I with mine
two worlds,
two separate realities.
*
I notice a trend
among the religious.
They want to keep her alive,
bury her food under syrup.
They wish her a long
and even longer life
though she has not spoken
or walked for years
and her system won’t heal
her bed sores easily.
How nice
that for your sake
she is staying,
others tell me.
*
I do not want this burden.
*
My friend asks
if I have told her
she can go.
I pause,
a long Seinfeld pause.
No.
Out of nowhere
when she heard me
tell someone
in her presence
we thought it was the end,
she screamed!
Startled the crap out of me.
*
Even when my father
was nearing the end
any mention that he might die
would set him off into a rage.
Who was I to deny him hope?
Maybe she’s like that too.
Maybe if I tell her
she can go
she’ll think
we don’t want her
or that she’s a burden.
*
It’s a trendy thing to ask
I know.
But maybe in her faith
this send-off
is a bad idea,
a foot in the mouth,
a faux pas,
a curse!
I should google that.
*
Let Mystery take care
of her leave-taking.
*
My job is to feel
her sweetness
in my heart.
There, she can take
my little hand in hers,
embarrass me
as she sings out loud,
and together,
we can push
my newborn
brother
in his stroller
and live
another day.
June 19, 2018
