something like three
and I knew what it meant:
your vigil was over.
You’d stayed with your father day and night
in case he woke,
in case he came once more
to the surface, to the interface between worlds,
the hospital room with its enormous window;
came like a whale to break the glass sea
and take a deep breath,
and cast a living eye upon you
and roll, weedy and barnacled,
and go back down.
Thanks to morphine his face
betrayed nothing, not impatience, nor sorrow,
nor gratitude, nor fear, none of the passions
of a dying animal. His poor bony chest,
his nose and fingers half white, half blue,
his cheek stubble like a light frost —
we could stare all we wanted.
Thanks to morphine the door was easy
to open as we arrived and left.
It wasn’t like someone being born,
the groaning, the leaky, bloody struggle
that ended with sad wails from the baby
and smiles elsewhere.
This was quiet, processional,
an orderly cell by cell evacuation
until the building stood empty
and the fire burned it down.