by Kathryn Gilmore
In a dream, my father asks me to help him die faster
We sit at opposite ends of his hospice bed,
wrinkled sheets stained with dried blood and shit.
No, we sit on the Mississippi’s brown waves,
lurching between every other breath. No,
there is no breath. That is, he isn’t inhaling,
only releasing one extended huff over minutes,
over years. My chest, of course, is taut and full.
Even here, I hold my breath like a hand,
like a grudge. He wants me to guide him
into the tide. He takes my blistered fingers,
places them on his shoulder. I look down. The water
smells like meadow grass and daffodils and ash.
He tells me he’d forgive me for it. He says,
I won’t even remember. I remind him, I will.
He tells me to view it as a kindness.
His oxygen tube begins to writhe, stretching
down over his swollen face, around his neck,
across his chest like kudzu devouring a home.
I am reminded that for him, dying has not
been a passive experience. For him, dying is work.
I turn away when he pats my hand. He smiles,
calmly, and pushes me under.
Poet Kathryn Gilmore is a poet and MFA candidate at Syracuse University originally from Memphis, Tennessee. Her work has appeared in Stylus, Laughing Medusa, and Medical Humanities Journal, as well as Mass Poetry’s Future in Verse chapbook. She is the recipient of various honors for her writing including Boston College’s Dever Fellowship.
Artist Austin Cornett is a Louisville-based photographer and multimedia artist. They studied at JCTC and found their love for photography 10 years ago. Since then, they began the daily practice of taking photos every day and injecting experimentation into their everyday life. To see more of their work, you can got to salve_photography on Instagram
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