by Maria Yang
This can’t be the last time I see him
He doesn’t look like the man I married
A machine breathes for him
Bags of fluid drain into him
Wires are taped all over him
His eyes are closed, his limbs are swollen.
This shouldn’t be last time I see him
I have yet to see him alone.
Doctors are coming and going
Doctors who don’t know that he
volunteers at the soup kitchen
has hiked most of the Appalachian Trail
bakes a tasty chocolate cake
can make any child laugh.
Will this be the last time I see him?
They’ve pushed me out the door
Someone is injecting something into his arm
Someone is pushing on his chest
Someone is shouting “CLEAR”
Someone glances up and sees me, then looks away.
This can’t be the last time I see him
It was never supposed to be this way
He was supposed to grow old
Die in his sleep, quietly, with no pain
In his own home, where he lived, laughed, and loved.
This is the last time I will see him.
And we never got to say good-bye.
