Here is one of my poems. It is about the last days of my sister's life and how she just reverted to being and looking like a child. (She was 36.)
Glazed eyes. Child’s voice.
“I’d like A Strawberry Milkshake.” She said.
With the hope of a 6 year old at McDonald’s on Sunday.
“Of Course.” I say. There is nothing I won’t do.
To ease you. To soothe you.
Put your cancer eaten mind to rest.
In the Kitchen:
Heavy Cream. The fattest ice cream I can find for her little bones.
Sugar. Ensure that stirs like pulled taffy.
And Strawberries: Fresh, red, sweet.
It’s creamy , frothy, fat-laden.
I put it in a clear, tall Diner glass and take it to her.
“Is that all for me?” She says as she sips like it’s the first time.
“You don’t have to share.” I say. Never again. Beautiful, Brilliant Chlld.
A million kinds. Any kind you want.
All for you.