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.