Sister Death
I wonder about your face, mostly
why I cannot find a single image.
Is it that history tries to forget
the grave enablers?
Euthanasia’s next of kin?
I looked for your face to see for myself
how you could bear the death and
disposal in your brother’s wake.
How did you process your patients’
pain and hopelessness—
(Like a mother? A soldier?
A dog kicked to follow with dark empty eyes?)
typing and taping away
and not die some yourself?
You reached out to the dying dead
the frantic toddlers tumbling in the dark
falling without handrails or walls;
crashing through a house of leaves
never hitting the floor.
You reached out and plucked them from the fall,
tucked them into white sheets.
(Could it have been gentle?)
You did not talk them off the ledge
when you kissed them good night,
but (at least, perhaps) they went quietly.
As I try to picture your face,
your experienced eyes
I must ask and accept no answer:
Did you thread the needle lightly,
with tenderness? Or like an awkward nurse,
did you have to search for a vein,
fishing through fat and muscle
apologizing, this will only sting
but a moment.
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