I Admit

I Admit

I didn’t expect to make it to her bedside

at the end

distance too far to time it perfectly

to weave symptoms together

to predict when her heart would stop

to know when leftover impulses

would wind down to stillness

 

I knew I wouldn’t make it to her bedside

at the end

it was my brother who

got to the hospital

held one bony hand

cold as the Atlantic in winter

 

I didn’t try to make it to her bedside

couldn’t bear

her last breath

the graying of her skin

the guilt whispering in my ear

the kind of daughter

I could have been

 

I didn’t make it I

couldn’t make it unable to

dive below the water line of my mind

to think burial to

fathom the decaying of flesh

its shedding from bone

the ache of lowering her underground

of leaving her there

 

 

 

 

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