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.
