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Poetry By: dadio


Submitted:Nov 3, 2009    Reads: 95    Comments: 3    Likes: 2   

She laughed a lot,
(That was part
Of the healing process
The doctors lied, they
Repeated that until
She died) and recalled
Old jokes from years ago;
Japes from her youth,
Funny tales from childhood;
The way her father used
To walk to make her laugh

If she was on a down day;
The time her mother
Put coffee in the gravy
And sea salt in the tea,
But you saw no healing
Process: just her
Wasting away,
Getting thinner,
The I'm a deaden look
In her eyes; the pasty skin;
The pallor of death;

The hard to get breath.
Some days she didn't laugh,
Some days she'd sit
In a chair by the window
Next to her bed in the ward
And watch the trees, birds,
The visitors drive up the drive
In their cars, listen to
The conversations nearby,
The moans, the groans,

The rumours of whom
Had gone in the night,
Who had left on their
Own two feet, or she'd
Close her eyes and consider
The doctor's lies (knowing
Truth at least inside)
Knowing pains, understanding
Hurt like an old unkind friend
Whom she wanted to defeat
In the end, but did so
Only by her own, slow dying.

Some days she laughed
Death in the face; some
Hours she could hardly
Bear the pain, felt it
Wrench her apart, tear
Her almost limb from limb;
But most days you saw
Through it all; saw beyond
The smiles, the jokes,
The laughter; heard her
Inner voice, that one

In the wilderness of
The dying; that deep
Down I'm a goner,
Please help me crying.
You wanted to be there
When she died and you were
Although she never knew
(Unless her passing spirit
Saw you on the way out
The door if such things
Happen) as her eyes were shut

Tight and her mind had
Ebbed away from you
(And the doctors who lied
Or got it all wrong like
Sad words to a different song)
And only the death rattle
In your laboured breathing
Informed us of your leaving.


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