Down the hall
in room fifteen
she lays in the darkness;
the tentacles of polyvinyl tubing
infusing sustenance
and filtering toxins.
I stand in your doorway
this morning making my rounds
as dawn breaks in the distance.
You know not of the new day
birthing force
as it seems your belly
would hope to do with its roundness
of the sun basking light
into this glass chamber.
Viral wrath has claimed your heart
as its own possession
and has stolen your intricate
defenses
against the dark art of microbes and
infectious agents; harbingers of your end.
Yet we will not let that pass,
as a mother agonizes over the
passing of another child into the night.
We speak yet again
of "multi-system organ failure"
the words passing as discourse
and conversation,
when in reality they are merely
cloaks with which we wrap ourselves
to shield our souls from speaking truth:
"I am sorry ma'am,
your granddaughter is dying,
their is nothing more that we can do."
The nurses pace about bearing
the weight of this burden daily,
some shield it beneath their loving care
and others project their disgust at dying
upon the young doctors
weighing the balance
and attempting to stem the tide.
