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.
How In Hell To Let Go