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Flirted with Nurses

David Sapp

The day before Dad died, I’m the dullard, his dying
news to me. In Columbus, there was nothing but Dad
stuck in crisp, white sheets, folded into origami creases,
and this obvious portent, a bright, red chemo bucket,
ghoulish, open-mouthed demon crouched at his bed.

The day before Dad died, he was touched warily with
neoprene gloves, protocol; he’d become a toxic spill,
an eschewed thing, a body, a bill to tally. Somehow,
despite white-coated dithering, I got him home to brothers,
sisters (Aunt Carolyn the choragus), a somewhat
familiar death, however imperfect.

The day before Dad died, he flirted with nurses
(a waitress on any other occasion). “Would you like a pill?”
she asked, too loudly, unnecessarily. Xanax to Xanadu!
Eyes suddenly bright, playfully, he stuck out his tongue for
pill, nurse, comic effect, our laughter a parting reassurance.

The day before Dad died, barbarian cells strutting into Rome,
a violence routing all of us, I was obliged to prefer cremation
or coffin. DNR? I rehearsed the letters on my lips and turned
this starkness over in my head; it refused to be casual,
an ordinary movement, a spatula flipping burgers.

The day before Dad died, Hospice brought pursed smiles
and eyes so gracious, so kind, inadvertent knives.
Hospice brought thoughtful cookies, chocolate chip,
oatmeal raisin, peanut butter with the kisses. I wondered,
are these all for him? I forgot his favorite.

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