Waiting

 

You lie

on your side,

a Picasso

translation of Jesus,

your shoulder

rising

bony and angular

above your ear.

 

The holes

that crucified you

are in your lower

back,

are still seeping

bloody urine

into bags hanging

limp

on the bedrail.

 

I want it

to happen like

it does

in the movies:

You open your

eyes

whisper I love you

and

with a tender

nod to the side,

die.

 

 

I know it

is painful for

you.

For me,

I want your

morphine.

I want

to quiet my own

battle between

here

and somewhere

else.

 

Please go,

I pray for you.

Pray not

to our father

in heaven,

but

to you

my father

still on earth.

 

(Published by The Independent Writers’ Studio, Clover, A Literary Rag, Winter 2015)