How In Hell To Let Go

How In Hell To Let Go

The burley orderly cradled him

a near skeleton, mouth opened, teeth bared,

head lolled back; he couldn’t talk but left a will

to take all extraordinary measures.

Three times a week he merged with a machine

that pumped poison out of him and life back in.

The orderly looked over the ruined body

in his arms then at me, straight in my eyes,

and said, “this should not be happening.”

It wasn’t the hospital chaplain, or me,

the man’s proxy, but the orderly that

talked him out of his fear and into hospice.

I hope when my time comes, I can let go

without having my claws ripped out;

release my clench and be grasped

by the unseen. Held in the arms

of the good orderly direction

that even now keeps me from perdition.