Drape All the Mirrors
|Julia Wilson Carroll|
a poem for my aunt
by Ken Ireland
I sit by the phone and wait for word that she has died,
ready to cry.
But the news is still the same: she is resting comfortably.
If she has lucid moment, yes,
I will tell her that her nephew from
loves her. California
When we last spoke I was 10.
If that is how she remembers me, I will not complain or correct.
She only complains that the fall had blurred her eyes.
She could no longer call the pitch strike or ball.
Keep you eye on the ball, you are the best aunt in the world.
My last words.
It was just a spill that an ordinary person could have walked off,
but it shattered her back and pelvis.
Unable to speak, she pointed to the legal paper she had prepared.
The priest was called. He forgave, prayed and left.
An intern hauled out the tubes while my father stood
expecting her last breath.
15 days later, nurses and doctors admire the body’s desire to survive
while she lies waiting patiently for her hereafter now.
There is no looking back, no food, no water, no death.
I will drape the mirrors and exaggerate stories of no hitters.
Judy Carroll died in hospice care, Tuscon Arizona,