A Certain Light.
He had taken the right pills the night before.
We had counted them out from the egg carton,
where they were numbered.
So there would be no mistake.
He had taken the morphine, and prednisone, and amitriptyline,
and Florina, and vancomycin, and halcion too quickly,
and had thrown up in the bowl Joe brought to the bed.
A thin string of blue spits.
Then waited a few minutes to calm himself
before he took them all again.
And had slept through the night, and the morning,
and was still sleeping at noon, or not sleeping.
He was breathing maybe twice a minute.
And we couldn't wake him.
We couldn't wake him until we shook him hard
calling John, wake up now.
John, wake up.
Who's the president?
And he couldn't answer.
His doctor told us we'd have to keep him up for hours.
He was all bones and skin.
No tissue to absorb the medicine.
He couldn't walk unless two people held him.
And we made him talk about the movies.
What was the best moment in On the Waterfront?
What was the music in Gone With the Wind?
And for seven hours, he answered, if only to please us,
mumbling, I like the morphine, sinking,
rising, sleeping, rousing.
Then only in pain again, but weakened.
So weakened.
That late that night, in one of those still blue moments
that were a paradise, he finally opened his eyes wide.
And the room filled with a certain light we
thought we'd never see again.
Look at you two, he said.
And we did.
And Joe said look at you.
And John said, how do I look?
And Joe said, handsome.