20 Instances of Death

I.

I think he’s waiting, 

my mother whispers

over the phone.

Mom!

My jaw clamps.

Can he hear you?

She ignores me.

She’s pressing buttons 

on the microwave.

There’s a sudden scratch  

- she’s dropped the phone -

a whirring, a ping. 

Whoops, she says,

Gotta go.

*

The dining room table 

has disappeared under mail, 

pill bottles, receipts.

His arthritic neck cranes

above the brown recliner, 

C-SPAN, volume maxed.

I stand behind him, 

kiss his bald pate,  

inhale Bay Rum.

Lauren!

he says,

eyes filling.

*

Dysphagia and cookies don’t mix.

I’ve unpacked my bags

and changed into sweats.

I kick back

in the gold recliner

and spin to face him.

I fit funny in the chair,

still imprinted with my Gigi, 

gone a decade.

We eat Oreos.

Share stories. 

He chokes the rest of the night.

II

On my 16th birthday,

he took me out for lunch

to discuss spelunking.

When you explore dark corners,

he said, you’ll discover creatures

it will take a lifetime to understand. 

The rewards are never immediate,

he cautioned, reading my brow, But it’s

how you avoid becoming a dull adult.

III

He moans in his sleep.

I should pull a chair to his bed, 

keep the covers tucked

to his chin. 

Instead, at the threshold 

of his bedroom,

I count breaths. 

Three shallow.... 

Nothing. 

I wait. 

                  Wait.

 Wait.

His eyes snap open, widen, 

legs kicking violently 

under the sheets

before he gags, 

sputters, 

       sinks. 

Scuttling back to the couch, 

I nurse an awful hunch:

I’m a lily-livered,

yellow-bellied rat.

NO.

Astride a chestnut mare, dirt-stained, 

traveling the forest edge to headland,

my mare stops. There’s a sudden chill.

Chin upturned, battle ax skyward,

ruby lips part to release a war cry

so fierce a killer whale breaches.  

The thought fills me with embarrassment.

I eat.

IV

Cheyne-Stokes.

He stops breathing for 62 seconds at a time.

My mother times it on her watch.

I can’t stay underwater for that long, she says.

V 

He spends most of his days underwater,

a rainbow trout gleaming over green

river rock and clouds of emerald algae.

Whirligigs blur the surface.

Moving closer to examine 

speckled olive, slick of rose,

a shadow.  

His caudal fin snaps,

propelling him upstream.

 VI

You should learn how to play

World of Warcraft! says my brother,

over his bowl of spicy Pad Thai.

“Sad? Kill an abomination!”

VII

His heart is failing, says the nurse.  

My mother brushes his forehead.

My sister holds one hand, 

me, the other.

A failing heart can be restored 

by a closed circuit of love, 

I chant magically, childishly. 

VIII

We think he is minutes away.

We think that it will happen

in the next few hours. 

We think we should start making phone calls.

We think we should page the nurse.

The doorbell rings.

 “WHO IS RINGING

THE GODDAMN BELL?” 

he roars, furious, foaming.

IX

When he dies, I suspect it will snow.

Or it won’t.

I read my horoscope.

X

I dream of falling 

backwards into a pot 

of black ink. 

Blind, clawing for surface, 

lungs tight, fingers scrape 

the bottom.

Wrong way.

XI

I had an affair, 

lied to my friends,

quit my job, 

moved home,

unpacked my bags,

settled in to help him die.

At night, I collect pillows 

from every room, arrange them 

so I’m at the center of a den of bears,

their warmth protecting me, a child

dependent on an adult who is me.

XII

I must leave the house.

I meet my brother at a dive, 

suck down two beers, two cigarettes.

In the wooden booth, I can still smell it.

It’s impossible to escape, I tell him.

Yeah, he says. Can’t trick death.

XIII

This hospice nurse

smells like fabric softener 

and 10,000 cigarettes, her voice

a potato peeler catching a nail.

“MAURICE, CAN YOU HEAR ME?”

If I were him, I’d pretend I’m dead too.

XIV

We crush Lorazepam 

in a spoon, add water, 

mix it into a syringe of morphine.

When we administer 

the medicine, we lift 

our tongues, too.

XV

I need my nephews.

I need them to crawl all over me,

hug me, jump on things they shouldn’t.

When they show up, people shush them.

It’s just too much right now. 

They leave. 

XVI

My mother, my mother, my mother.

She doesn’t know what to say,

so she crouches, shouts:

“I’m 61! It was my birthday yesterday!”

His head rolls toward her.

“61!” she shouts again,

her face in his horizon.

His eyes spiral like a cartoon.

He smiles!

XVII

I want a man to rescue me.

I want never to make mistakes.

I want never to lie.

I want death to be silent,

bloodless, painless, quick.

I want, shamelessly.

The thought fills me with shame.

XVIII

I sit in an uncomfortable chair 

repeating my mantra:

Death is oceanic,

courage a raft. 

The mantra morphs:

Death a shiver of sharks,

fear a bucket of chum.

XIX

The hospice nurse suggests 

we tell him that we will be okay, 

that he can let go, that the dying 

need to hear they’ve been enough.

My mother points out that he is heavily sedated. 

“Yes,” she says.

XX

The door to his bedroom is cracked.

A sliver of violet light 

crosses the carpet, 

           climbs the bone white wall,

flannel sheet pulled to his chin,

lips bloodless, a grim crack 

through the bronzed sheet 

        of his jaundiced face.

His fingers are stiff, 

        shiny, waxed.

On the edge of his bed, 

      his hand in mine, 

my thumbs knead

until there’s 

    warmth,

an ember to tend,

    palm softening,

            unfolding.

In the center, 

  a fissure,

whorled, widening, 

mouth of an 

       inkwell, 

            black ink. 

We mix, 

    blind, 

sediment sinking, 

dark hum.

Vision merges.

His bedroom, violet,

swift current

of memory, 

rawhide mitt, black soutane, 

beach rose,

  garden tomato, filigree pen, 

       Roman missal -    

                the current strengthens,

rips, boils,

propels us through an eddyline, 

    folds us under

               hulking monotones

sunken iron gate, church pew, 

           barber chair, 

                    headstone, 

queen bed, bénitier - 

water fills our throats,  lungs tightening,

  legs cramping,

regret, fear, 

             regret   - 

NO.

Thighing through eddyline, 

dirt-stained, ruby-lipped, 

war cry,  battle ax, 

clutch, 

   raft,

     release,

  float.

A stretch of sunlight and fern, 

          a warbler’s chipped, bright song, 

                    marsh grass, 

                              driftwood, 

                silver maple, 

                          bulrush, 

                                 a bend in the river   

 sweet air  

the water ringing with truth: 

                  You are enough. 

There’s a still, clear pool.

Speckled olive, slick of rose.

With a flick, 

  he disappears downstream.

I.

It’s almost dusk.

Whirligigs spin across the water.

A car pulls into the driveway.

I let go of his hand,

head to the kitchen to join

the hushed uncertainties of the living

where we’ll pour coffee,

make lists,

sift for meaning, 

trading myths.