The nurse said, your father really looks at you
when you walk into the room—
he stares at you,
she said, he must have something to tell you.
But he never tells you.
Later, another hospice worker listened to this story.
She said, no, you know,
sometimes, as we’re leaving this world,
our world contracts to the small space of the room,
to the few things we love.
Your father wasn’t looking at you because he had
something to tell you, no,
he was looking at you because he loved you, she said.
It was near the end, she said,
he was drinking you in.
© 2018. The Athenaeum Press at Coastal Carolina University.
All work copyright of their respective authors.
© 2018. The Athenaeum Press at Coastal Carolina University.
All work copyright of their respective authors.