Your life. Your double shift. The washing
of the hands. My
wake up call. To the E.R..
My makeshift
mask. Your lack of staff.
No room. My rude (was I rude?) and shift-
ing accusations. Who will
be passed over? Whose will over
or undertaken? Your double shift.
The washing of the hands.
Your underhanded (I thought)
refusal to let me
see her. My wail. My mother's
shunt. The leak. The second and last
or next to last repair.
Whose door, marked, unremarkable? The violence
of separation. The herb, bitter.
The pox, the sores
multiplied tenfold. Boils, blood
in the water. The cries
like a shofar. Why is tonight
different? The last days. Whose eulogy
unspoken? Your life, redoubted, doubled
over. Passing over. The washing of the hands.
Carole Glasser Langille Author of 5 books of poetry, 2 collections of short stories and the non-fiction book "Doing Time" about giving writing workshops in prison. Nominated for the Governor General's Award in Poetry, The Atlantic Poetry Award and the Alistair MacLeod Award for Short Fiction.