The First Night That She Died

The first night that she died,
we wailed at the loss, tears turned
to hollers and yells and shouts
until her eyes opened and she demanded

her last supper : thick steak,
thicker gravy, grits and greens.
We let her suck on chipped ice,
stroked her hair and waited.

The second night that she died,
we sniffed at her passing, damp eyes
turned to moans, whimpers and sighs
until her lungs rose and she screamed

for last dinner rites : peachy-plummy
pies and giant meatballed spaghetti.
We gave her soup through a straw,
patted her head and went to bed.

The third night that she died,
we flipped through magazines,
heard the clock tick slow
until she sat up and whispered:

Dinner please. And so we mustered
up some sliced ham, mash and a crusty roll.
She ate it with relish, licked her
plate goodbye, and finally fell asleep.