Sitting by his bed in the quieting room,
I take his hand, hold it despite the shock
of how cold it is. His chin rests on his chest,
eyes stare straight ahead at something
I can’t see.
Each breath is an effort, an event, a triumph.
But the battle is slipping away, marked
by slowing beeps.

I rise somehow to bravery, selflessness,
competence, shielded—by some wise
and perhaps merciful part of my brain—
from what I really feel, or would have felt,
in this moment: horror, howling outrage.
My voice sounds almost clear, almost strong,
as I tell him the last, most important thing,
uncertain if he can hear.

 

Abbey J. Porter writes poetry and memoir that seek to express personal truths, honor relationships and grief, and connect with others. She appreciates true-crime TV, kindness, good pens, and good friends. She lives outside Philadelphia with her three dogs. Abbey holds an MFA from Queens University of Charlotte.