After nurses untangle the wires from his
body, each of us takes a turn to
cross the floor and touch him: Daughter.
Daughter. Wife. So loud, this absence of
exhale and inhale. Egg-smooth curve of
forehead and shaved scalp innocent of all
gauze now, no IV drip, no ribbed tubes.
His ringless hands have swelled, still warm.
In minutes, their own hands chilled,
jaws sore, several women
knitted in history and blood
load into the Plymouth and head for
my mother’s kitchen where, coats dropped,
no one thinks to ask what’s next.
One aunt slices tomatoes,
pulls at a head of romaine; her sister
quickly opens cans, then
reaches across the counter to
scrape white tuna chunks into the
turquoise bowl my mother has been
using forever, while my mother stands
vacantly blending in Miracle
Whip with her red-handled chopper,
Xs rocking over wobbled Xs. We have
yet to pick up the phone, not ready for
zero hour, kisses, the threshold.
–
Merrill Oliver Douglas is the author of the poetry chapbook Parking Meters into Mermaids (Finishing Line Press, 2020). Her poems have appeared in Baltimore Review, Valparaiso Poetry Review, Tar River Poetry, Cimarron Review, Comstock Review, and The Briar Cliff Review, among others. She lives near Binghamton, New York.