There are dreams but I sleep past
them. I wake in sun and pain. Joe
is dying and I ignore it. I bury myself
in books and other distractions; in
television and other detachments.
My head is encased in foam. It floats
through air, cushioned, enclosed,
severed from this pained and heavy
body. My head cannot tell my heart
to feel. The connection is broken.
A broken connection can be mended.
A broken heart is irreparable. It flies
in pieces through unforgiving air. This
head feels only the sensation of floating,
a slight anxiety that cushioning might
be insufficient for a hard landing. Hard-
headed, hard-hearted, I wait for the phone
to ring, but it is disconnected. They can
call and call but I will not hear. Joe is dying
far away and later than he wanted. He is
sad because he is going to heaven and I
won't. He is happy because he knows his
other daughter awaits him there. Another
bright morning, another warm day.
A ribboned sky at sunset.
--
Sharon Brogan
http://www.sbpoet.com
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