Vigil

Instead of sleep, a book of poems
by a dim lamp in the chair
opposite the hospice bed.
Every two hours another
dose of oxycontin crushed
and dissolved, liquid morphine poured
onto my father’s bright blue tongue.
I thought to steal from this fresh
supply of oblivion, but—
the sun came up cold behind
fogged glass. Birds visited feeders.
After silent hungry hours
the nurse—brusque, cheerful—drove
up the long driveway as the house
woke up. This ordinary
business of dying goes on
like this, until it doesn’t,
and days get long. Late afternoon,
my sister and I took a walk
along the road’s iced edge,
talking a little, breathing
mostly, listening to snow drip
from branches as it melted.
A cardinal—loud, bright, insistent—
landed on a low redbud branch.
We knew before our uncle’s car
turned onto the empty street, sent
by our aunt to retrieve us.