By Jennifer Superson


Call it therapeutic

Or not


His complaining seems to last for hours


Circulating the short-circuited pathways

Of my brain


I'm fried


My face hangs stiff

Micro muscles



How to end without being abrupt




For Teresa

By Jennifer Superson

Desperate for space

On the hospital bed

"Can we move him to the left?"


Him, who just yesterday

Held my hands, and hers, in his

Radiating bliss

So unfamiliar to this world.


Now, in the final hours

She moves in panicked disbelief

To touch, smell

The smoothness of his skin

One last time.


Out of living grace

Her voice

Gently asks me

To close the heavy door

To the hospice room.


How marvelous

A waning glimpse of intimacy.

Its true, fleeting form

So palpable.


Two lie still on soiled stiff sheets.




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