i.m. Bain Carmichael
I watch my grandfather dying
like my baby being born,
the rasping gasp of his breath
against my aunt’s demonstration:
like this dad, deep in, deep out,
they would tell me when
breath turned to scream,
like this now, deep in, deep out.
Progress – then pause.
The bedside vigil hours grow.
Chips of ice, water on a sponge,
small physical talisman
offered from this side.
Days late and I walk
one foot in the gutter,
one foot on the path;
an illusion that I can make
all things come to pass.
