Thin places:
Where you can nearly
see through the veil between
alive, breathing, and
absent from flesh—
is anything so sacred?
When others have helped
you to dress, are carrying
you where you do not
want to go (who ever
liked the hospital?)
Discomfort abounds,
pain ascends, management
drugs creep into tired veins—
still, you thank the nurse
who adjusts your pillows
Holding on through small hours
of morning you wait for your bride,
the woman your soul loves,
to wake, stroke your head, tell
you it’s okay to say goodbye—
So you do. You’re an Iowa
farm boy, built of strong stuff.
And you’re an old man, lungs
ravaged by cancer. A lifetime
between them (or is it a breath?)
Glory awaits…
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