Sometimes she’ll wake up at night just
to yell at me. Calls me
selfish. Tells me
I don’t love her enough.
That I want her to be alone
and crazy. Other times, we’ll just be
laying on the couch watching one of those awful
goddamn television shows she likes to watch
and she’ll sit up mystified by the way (she says)
I don’t take care of myself.
She tells me
she can’t go through it again,
watching someone else go
the way her mother did
all green and bloated and crying
wanting only to die in peace.
It’s horrible, watching a broken person die
when you know the best sensation they will ever feel
is that exact moment
when the gargling is over
and the body transforms itself
into a slab of meat
for medical students and morticians
to splice and dice.
I would explain the difference, but I expect she will see it herself. Sometime.
Sometimes I think
she’s broken too,
but in a different way
and maybe that’s why
the whole thing is lost on her. And no matter
how hard I try
I will never be
that un-broken person she wants –
that person not requiring a constant explanation
to all the friends and relatives
who will, most likely,
look on in complete amazement
as I go on doing
and being
because in my own way
I am simply trying to put all the pieces
back in order.
