We marked time by the rhythm of her breath
tick tocking in the hushed anticipation
of her leave taking.
Like an old coat he lay draped on the foot of her bed,
Cradling his tired face in his hands
Lifting it each time the tempo of her breathing changed
eyeing her then, me
ashamed of his ambivalence.
He will not ask,
“Now?”
Standing to stave off the monotony
He joins me at her bedside, where,
midwives, we are
hovering
waiting on the mysteries of
body and breath.
The woman is drowning
in a flood of her own fluids,
now oozing through her flesh,
taut and translucent
a shimmering dirigible
that lies expressionless
Breathing, Breathing, Breathing
unrelenting and resolute
it seems desperate to remain in this world
despite his entreaties:
“let go and take your rest.
I know you are tired.”
We trade anxious glances when she stops mid-breath.
Unconsciously mimicking her we stop breathing
until a defiant exhalation
indicts our impatience
Insisting we follow her breath
To the end
Which arrives in the silence
That follows a sigh
A lone tear traces a path
Down her cheek
That he catches with his finger.
Touching it to his tongue
he tastes
her absence.
David Heaney, February, 2018
Something to Say 