View PDF

(Margene Morris Knowlton, 1934–2013) 

I. 

The intensive care unit had never seen such a hostess
How was the show? And what did they serve? 
We brought her primary stew 
A fresh fruit bouquet 
Chicken salad, croissants, and raspberry scones 
She tried to feed every nurse and janitor on the floor
We plastered the antiseptic walls with sticky great grandchildren
We should play some cards, we reminisced 
Beset by wires and tubes and a haze of medication,
She still seemed game 
How much pain do you feel on a scale of one to ten?
She struggled, mind running away from her mouth,
Ten she got it out, ten— 
Then she changed the subject gracefully 
Is it impolite to dominate a conversation from one’s deathbed?
—she could be trusted on questions of etiquette—
She remembered my recent promotion 
That’s a big deal, she smiled behind the cannula on her lip
I mean wow! 

II. 

I don’t want congestive heart failure, lung disease, diabetes, wounds or infection 
I don’t want dementia or even bouts of mild discombobulation
I don’t want incisions or sutures that won’t heal this side of the resurrection 
I don’t want to burn out in a crescendo of emergency intervention
Fill me not up with translucent bags of sugar water one drip at a time 
Stop from my nose the imponderable used-bandage dankness of infirmary air 
Shut out the interminable beeps and whir of medical technology
Bring low the color-coded mountains dancing mirthlessly across the screen 
Hide from my face the television mounted on a two-elbowed black metal arm 
Lead me not among the blue pajama people too accustomed to fa tality 
I don’t want to die in a hospital. 

III. 

You play it again 
The Brahms Intermezzo in E flat major Opus 117 No. 1
Years ago she asked you to play it at her funeral 
Start practicing, my dear, I can hear her voice 
What’s your rush? you said 
And don’t get any ideas 
The Brahms is a lullaby 
A procession of gentle swells 
A horizon incandescent with fading light 
And the undercurrent, the dark water, is not a complaint
It does not lament 
It is the truth 
A story about betrayal and forgiveness; 
Illness and endurance 
Suffering and grace 
You play it again, my love, and 
Your sobs fill in the spaces between the notes 

IV. 

I miss the late-night phone calls 
How many slices do you think I can get out of a Marie Callendar’s pie? 
The recycled jokes and riddles and inspirational quotes
The self-help books I couldn’t return because she inscribed them so prominently 
I miss the abrupt hang ups—no goodbyes—when she deemed calls complete 
I miss catching her bending the rules of games 
The disappointd smiles that meant gentlemen should look the other way 
I miss the drinking fountain in her kitchen 
The candy drawer 
The decorations; figurines, table-runners, and tapestries for every occasion 
I miss her ears and her eyes and her pallet 
How was the show? And what did they serve? 
The pleasure she took in good things done right 
I miss how she called everybody my dear friend 
How she defended underdogs 
Her endless supply of benefits of the doubt, no matter how tortured or elaborate 
I miss the radio, the classical station, keeping her company day and night 
I miss her with her family 
With my wife, her granddaughter, my love 

V. 

Life generally doesn’t ask permission or apologize
It is and it is good and it does not doubt 
It is relentless; insatiable; it wants more life 
And the fear of mortality—call it a blessing; a favorable adaptation—grips us 
It whispers in our ears: 
Things that smell like that are not food 
The plunge is thrilling but the ground is hard 
Cockroaches are filthy and most snakes bite 
It urges us to make love and make peace while we still can
To use up this miracle matter, a body, before it expires
And—in the end— 
It can make us late to our own parties 
We go kicking and scratching, fingernails clinching the veil
Just anything not to pass through 
Ancestors sigh, checking their watches, shuffling ethereal feet
They long to say: it’s O.K. to die 

* 

They embrace her at last; there are tears and introductions
Maybe some paperwork; an orientation seminar 
Angels sing songs she knows by heart: 
Rejoice, the Lord is King! Your Lord and King adore!
Lift up your heart! Lift up your voice! Rejoice, again I say, rejoice!
And she hardly notices the lightness of her spirit
The feeling of beatitudes taking effect; reversing every mortal trouble 
A daughter come home. A release. A birth!