The Family in the Waiting Room Wants More - 2nd Revision

[beaufort]

The Family in the Waiting Room Wants More

But there is nothing more I have to give.
Although it can no longer speak,
the body has a language of its own;
a code of breath, of beat and pallor.

In the faint blue of insubstantial skin,
I place black sutures, taking extra care
to make them beautiful and even,
a steady hand my last remaining offering.

This small body,
nearly translucent in its lightness,
let loose from binding pain,
slowly, quietly exhales.

My throat suddenly as dry as hers,
my bones now old and aching,
I make my way down the long sterile hall
to speak the language of death.



The Family in the Waiting Room Wants More

But there is nothing more I have to offer.
Although it can no longer speak,
the body has a language of its own,
and hers has told me this is her last refrain.

In the faint blue of this delicate skin,
I place neat black sutures, taking extra care
to make them beautiful and small,
a steady hand the only thing left that I can give.

This small body,
nearly translucent in its lightness,
let loose from searing pain, slowly exhales
away from what it has known.

My throat suddenly as dry as hers,
my own bones aching now and old,
I make my way down the long sterile hall
to speak the language of death.