How I Couldn’t Help
I couldn’t let her wet her pants in bed,
though I wished to, once, the night
she woke me every hour with the bell
she clanged to call home her goats,
only to ask if she’d eaten lunch,
or if the dead sister sang
in the kitchen, or to whisper
the pain was back but she didn’t know
where, what kind, or in which language,
and would I please give her too much morphine
so she could fall asleep the right way.… Read the rest