Two Poems
No Place Like
A nursing home? Hell, no! I’ll never
go, my father says, damned waiting
room for death. But my mother says
she’s ready, she’s tired of endless chores,
the thieves, the cockroaches. Let me rest,
please, she begs. He snaps back, you go
if you want. I’ll die here! – to the woman
married to him for sixty-two years, who never
takes a step without him, and he – near-blind,
refuses to feel his way around the house
but instead slams into walls
in broad daylight. We’re fine, they say,
stop worrying. I nod into the phone, but
I know that’s impossible. In their familiar
darkness they move like tortoises, worn
carapaces heavier than they can carry, step
painfully through rooms
that shudder with the passing
of truck and bus on the broadened
road below. I see their silvery tracks gleam
for a second in the moonlight or in the sweep
of garish headlights. Backs stiff, they watch
TV in the living room, listen for footsteps, ears
tuned to pick up the sound of my uneven
gait on the landing. Instincts honed
to hear the slightest stir above the constant
din, our not-so often arrivals at the turn
of the concrete stair, the thump
of luggage, trip of tired feet. But wary
always of strangers, drug
dealers at the door, the landlord’s
henchmen, the night’s given dangers,
their sleep is restless. Goodnight, I say,
sleep well, my darlings, I say,
as I imagine them turning out
the light, settling the sheets to cover
their bodies, mouths moving,
softly praying. Sending
blessings to each other, and to me –
across the oceans. How desperately
I pray that the heaviest knock
will never fall upon our doors.
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