A gentle death (was delivering news), Rev 1

[Caleb Murdock]

From a full stop I begin
my walk down the sun bright hallway
lined by her family.
Silent sentries, their eyes averted, faces down; -- I'm interpreting this to mean pictures of the family in the hall, or are these actual people?  If they are pictures, their faces wouldn't be down
they do not acknowledge me.

In the middle of the hall 
plays the youngest of them all -- -- the youngest "sentry"?
Her fifth generation --
Skip, laugh, chase,
yards from where she lay dying. -- here you switch tense from present to past

Feeling small, awkward 
I pass on to her room.

More are here, much older,
packed tight, embers -- embers, nice
surrounding her with their warmth.

I sit by her husband 
already seated, 
his gaze uncertain yet fixed,
black hand tight on his cane. -- you're trying to tell us that these are African-Americans, but I'm not sure that sticking "black" in this spot is the best way

I hold her hand, reflect on her
over ninety years;
of certain pain, injustice in the rural south,
how she has refused to define herself,
or her family, on those terms.

I say to her what I must.  
She already knows, but I have to admit 
just as much. I cannot mend any more. -- I've witnessed only a couple deaths, and in both cases the people were not lucid enough to talk to

She becomes still.  Her hand in mine yet, 
I tell her husband 
"She has passed".
Looking nowhere, eyes empty -- he asks no one
"And now what will I do?"

I give him what I can, but
I must go.

It has rained, and warm
dappled sunlight filters
through the paneled window
onto the children still playing.

Her sentries turn to comfort me as I leave. -- by this I guess you mean the pictures -- but the speaker sounds detached, like an outsider, so why does he need comforting?

I'm all in favor of lengthy poems if they create a mood.  I think you succeed in this one.  What I expected, though, was more emotion in the poem.  Someone pointed out that you took a philosophical turn, and you indicated that that was what you wanted.  (The words I would use are "emotionally detached".)  But I don't see a philosophical conclusion.  Perhaps there's a little bit of a philosophical conclusion in the final strophe, but not much.  So the poem feels a little scattered to me -- a bit sad, a bit moody, a bit emotional, a bit philosophical.  I'm not going to suggest that you cut it down.  Rather, I think you need to decide precisely what you are trying to say, and then make sure that every word in the poem points to or supports that message.

The speaker in the poem seems to be an outsider, which is perhaps why the voice is so detached.  I find myself wondering who the speaker is -- a doctor?  a lawyer?  a family friend?  a civil-rights worker?  If the speaker is an outsider, why is he the one holding the woman's hand when she dies?  Indeed, it seems strange that he arrives just at the crucial moment and immediately assumes the role of chief comforter.  Also, what news is the speaker delivering?  I'm confused!