A Daily Grace

Words leak outside their decibel range,

float down the hall, lap at thin walls,

waking up sister–the start of a new choreography.

4 a.m.

Mom at dad’s bedside waiting for a deposit

once done independently, with primitive efficiency,

a simple trip to the bathroom erased

by unrelenting pain–the master of a new existence.

4 a.m.

The shame of failure–

eyes, sad, in the dark;

air silent in this room thick with the smell

of his body respiring a sour therapeutic cocktail

of pills. Mom sits,

shares in the silence, the thickness of it.

Emptying dad’s urinal at 4 a.m.

mom feels the changing shape of their narrative;

tries to find balance on the ground of

uncertainty, her waking moments spent chasing his

every breath–to see if it’s real.