Baptist Health, South Tower, Room 448 (hospice)
grief stretches out before me
wide and golden like a continent of sand
mouth-muffled by its own enormity and heat
a million million unmet wants pant
with dried-out tongues
grief stretches out before me
soft and golden like a too-large cat
making a home out of my body
A greedy catechism of maybe tomorrow
tomorrow tomorrow tomorrow tomorrow
until the very last tomorrow
when I bring him wilflowers from my garden and say
I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner
I didn’t know how to let you love me
4 thoughts on "Baptist Health, South Tower, Room 448 (hospice)"
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Omg. I’ve made visits to someone in that very same room. My heart goes out to you.
A “greedy catechism”.
I love your words.
These images tie together perfectly as descriptors of grief. I know “golden like a continent of sand” will linger with me.
“a million million unmet wants pant
with dried-out tongues”
What a great poem, Susanna. Grabbing and long-lasting images.