Dying

14 September 2006 at 4:39 pm (Poetry, Undated)

My wife grew old before she died,
very old, very rapidly. Into
the hospital Sunday; the family
arrived Monday; said their goodbyes
on Tuesday; Wednesday, she was comatose,
Thursday, she died. “Your mother’s
gone,” the doctor said. She was 52.

I’d noticed a pea-sized lump
on her left shoulder as they
put her in that ambulance Sunday
morning. it kept getting larger.
Hour after hour, I could see it
growing, Death sucking
the life out of her.

It grew to the size
of a cantaloupe. When she
was gone, I wanted to
grasp it, squeeze life back
into her, but it was gone.
In its place lay a blabby,
discolored bag of skin.