David Arthur, No. 8: Bed of Roses
I could not believe a hospital bed
was my last form of comfort.
The crunch of biohazard plastic
and a smell of stale, lifeless environment
was my final embracing touch.
My soundtrack was beeps and clips
measured by life support. Another
theremin instrument, playing a heartbeat
by stretching hope, never leaving
a trace of faith. There was no room for that.
Trust was held by a string, and the last
of your life played me like a harp.
Your voice orchestrated like violins
and laughter, asking my adult body
to share the adjustable twin mattress.
Like soft wrinkled leather, I felt 80 years
of motherhood trapped inside your palm,
as you traced my temples.I choked on
your merriment and understood the jovial choir
you let out, chuckling as I laid on stale sheets
“That’s much better” you sighed.
Not knowing, breaking down, this
was the last time you could comfort me.
And I still cannot digest; it was my signature
which allowed you to depart. When 3 years later
all I want, is to be back in that hospital bed.
Copyright © 2016 by David Arthur