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

[Rochelle Potkar]

I loved this poem. It reaches unsuspectingly into a deep, dark depth of pain...and dread.

But there is nothing more I have to offer.
Although it can no longer speak,
the body has a language of its own,

(maybe you need to qualify the 'body' here with a word, like 'small' or 'little' or a word in similar vein, because I didn't get that it was a child until the next to next stanza. I was visualizing an older/adult body.)

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.

All the other stanzas are just brilliant.