From under the seat
in your car
I retrieve an aqua
pill box
left behind
when everything
else has been sorted,
sifted through, carried away.
On the lid, a
filigree of birds
in navy and white
worn from riding
in your purse, your
pocket.
Inside, a salad of
pills
unsorted and
unmeasured,
generic tablets
pawed through by a
fingertip
in search of the
right one
93 318, Taro 6,
M40.
But the box had
slid between the seats,
gone from your
mind.
You who lived
compassion
who offered your
heart to each encounter,
boundryless
pills reined in
your heart
thinned your blood
lowered its
pressure
set its rhythm
right.
and, in the end,
rupture
flood
your thin blood
pumped into cavities
intended for air.
With the box in my
palm,
my eyes fill and
spill
with too-thin
tears.
“She wrote well, did Gail.”
ReplyDeleteMother says in a low voice.
“How did Gail go?”
She whispers as she watches our lips.
Judith, sitting close, relates events.
Mother’s eyes follow the forming of words
Her listening is intense; her gaze grave.
“Thank you,” I hear her tell Judith,
“Thank you for letting me know.”
4 April 2013, Valle Verde Health Center
We could never live life for you.
ReplyDeleteNot that we didn’t try to
Until too many pills spilled.
Then we just washed dishes,
And noticed that the cadence in your poems
Often matched the uneven beat of your heart.
-by Lois on the 49th day.