THE FIRST PERSON

We admire those who, near the end,

bear pain with a certain public stoicism,

who remain interested in others

for as long as they can. The tacit bargain

we make with them is to be

as we’ve always been, their seriously

cheerful daughters, sons, or friends.

Then they hurt so much they prefer pills

to us, morphine to anything that smacks

of love. And when they shit their pants,

start to howl, we need to remember it’s pain

that makes even the most selfless selfish,

they can’t help themselves, and we must narrow

the distance—become an I or a me—

to involve the heart, let it into how we speak.

Because sometimes, my dear brother,

like you, the nearly dead never cease

to amaze. Between coughs you told

a bad joke, thanked us for enduring you,

made each of us feel, I was sure, like the first,

the only person, you wanted to reach.