August poem

I feel the need to preface this poem.  It doesn’t feel finished to me.  It’s not everything I want to say on this topic.  But it’s a start.  I have left it with Sincerity and A. for our writing group, and they’ll give me their comments/suggestions in a couple of weeks.  Until then, this is it.  Any feedback fellow poets or critical readers want to offer is much appreciated.

Last Will

My grandmother’s ghost had come
to reside in her body long before
she was declared dead.

Blind, mute, beyond the years
of sliding backward through her life:
answering to Rodney, the nickname given

by her jazz-bandmates; goosing Santa
at the nursing home Christmas party;
calling me by my mother’s name.

When the time came, she refused
to eat—to be fed—and withered
into her pillow three days later.

She found a way to slip free
of the body that imprisoned her,
Houdini-style, a final act of will.

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8 thoughts on “August poem

  1. I like your poem. Thank you for sharing. I was just having a conversation with a hospice manager about how strongly will plays a role for many who are passing. It makes dying seem less scary to me

    • Thank you. I like to fool myself into thinking that it’s possible to have some control over death. I know it’s not true, but it’s somehow comforting.

  2. That is lovely. I always like your poems. They are so controlled and deliberate. It’s like you’re laying out the words one by one in exactly the right order. (Can you tell I have no business commenting on poems, lol?)

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