with smoke in the air

matching of emotions with dying

He just sits and coughs,

his barbed wire face

cracking forward in spasms

as if to collapse if he

            breathed once more.

 

Wracking the fragile cocoon

he calls body,

it drags heavy footed up

out of his lungs. I imagine

            I hear tissue ripping.

 

Fine lines fray the surface:

boiling blue veins

like a map on his forehead,

so delicate now, his skin even

            bruises from glasses.

 

Lean back in the chair, Grandpa,

go back to sleep.

 

Late in the evening, with

smoke trailing low,

drawing a line in the seasons,

the relatives come

            to lay out a bed.

Reviews

[cubert]

The deatchment gives it such a feeling of cold acceptance. It's like a beautiful drawing of something frightening.

Not even the cold that makes you shiver - something deeper. Thanks for commenting!