"April is the cruellest month" T.S.Eliot

The Watch

She's unable to move her own limbs,

so I lift, shift, hold her wasted 

body and ease her onto her back,

watching her face for the crumblings 

that mean pain. Her whispers don’t tell me

where she hurts or what she needs.

So I make my guess and take a deep breath- 

take her ninety pounds in my arms.

Together we journey to and from the commode. 

I empty the pot and yes, it smells- 

yes, but doing this task is instinctive, 

swiftly accomplished, and never repellent. 

I didn’t know how it would be. None of us do.

I sigh each time we manage 

the hoist to her high queen-size bed.

The sheets and pillows, her hair, face

and delicate, cold hands are all shades 

of wintery white, but there is color-

brown spots, pale yellow bruises, 

and purple stains on her skin. 

I try-I always try-to handle her 

with patience and reassurance.

We are Irish enough that the Banshee 

has come to sing from the hallway 

but I growl and chase the bitch away.

Some months ago my life collapsed

and I tumbled here to this bedside.

I'm the one, the only other woman

in this house, allowed to stand guard,

to share these difficult intimacies, 

to keep this watch. I want to do it well.