He said, “Honey, I’m so sorry but we can’t fight this.”

Across the street from this place in 1978 there was a little moment of paradise

a new cherry tree and a silly baby wearing her father’s leather gloves as slippers

There were once ocean dreams

rising over thoughtful flower gardens

But the hazardous body

does what the body wants and

a slow smoke had entered to stay.

 

He said, “Honey, you’re not going to make it out of here.”

She was soft

She was stalling

She definitively ordered,

“Resolve All Issues.”

She’s grey

with blue light

pulsing every last bit of life

around her final room

We feel our own floating feet

see her clear eyes

trapped under a breathing machine

She only wants a cold icy drink

and peace for the people she’s leaving

Give her what you can

Give her what you can

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