Next to the nurses station
in hell
you sat, my dapper, well-groomed
dad in an adult diaper. When
you fell onto your face
out of the wheelchair
they quietly replaced you. I
pretended
not to see.
Like a caged bird, your nails
had grown long to curl
in on themselves, grotesque.
No defense.
You could only rake your own skin
─still alive.
When I tried
to get you to eat,
you pushed me away,
that forearm, unnatural
strong,
a steady pressure.
You refused to open
forgot how
to swallow. If a clever nurse
managed a spoon of applesauce
past your lips,
you held it there, in a puffed
cheek
indefinitely.
After Medicare’s allowed
twenty-one
days you died.
