ICU

I peel adhesive tape from your eyelids.
There’s the infinite stare in
a room which offers no sense
of health, no comfort as I move close,
your breath never so
bad as when man-made.
Tears fill your eyes
(though they are mine)
quenching their thirst
dried out by the air you can’t blink away.
I blink them for you, manually,
though a broken heart wonders
what manual was written to learn this.
I stick the tape to the bed rails,
and press your hand, though for naught,
like flicking a switch when the power’s out.
I hold you wanting you to hold me
and tell me that it’s not my fault,
but there is only the slow
click-click of your breath,
and the gentle beeping of your heart,
paddle-shaped burns cross your breasts.
I can’t measure the distance
between my skin and you
even though we’re touching.
Tomorrow it shall be my choice
to tell them that you should be
allowed to go home, to let you
become as cold as your hands,
as hard and cold as the fingernails
you’d chew, Mom saying “stop that!”
when we’d watch TV,
children huddled together on the couch.
I huddle here now,
with other screens flashing and buzzing,
and I know that I shall leave here,
without you, no matter what I do.

I’ll tell the nurse about the tape,
and ask her to cover my eyes before I go.

©Bill Gnade 2000, 2006/Contratimes - All Rights Reserved.

This poem is associated with this essay on death and dying.