by Janet Hanna
Even now,
At the moment of my death,
I put my hand in yours,
As I have done for years,
And wait, as always,
For your strength to bolster mine.
I can hear Emily’s fly
Buzzing in my head.
It seems incongruous here
In the sterile whiteness of this room.
How odd that nothing seems to matter now.
Centuries ago I worried
That you would lose your hair
Or leave me for that redhead
Across the street.
I remembered I cried once
When you forgot my birthday.
And twice, long ago,
You failed to come home for dinner.
I wonder if I’ll want your strength
On the other side.
The thought occurs.
With disinterest
As I close down my eyes.
