She should have died here,
on the screened porch, in a rocking
chair she bought at a flea market
and painted red. At the end of
a common summer day of swimming 
and grilling and walks in the woods.
Late evening, with the light
still lingering around the edges
of the sky. Grandchildren sleeping
or giggling in the cottage behind her.
A broken-spined paperback, pages 
thick and soft from re-reading, face
down beside her. Her eyes would close,
open, close again, each interval
longer, as her breath came slower
and her battered heart moved gently
toward stopping.