NANCY BEAUREGARD
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WE DON’T SPEAK OF THE DYING
who sits between us, cross-legged on the floor, munches buttered popcorn, drinks gallons of syrupy soda, watches soap operas—don’t look at him, don’t mention the smell that permeates from his hair, clothes. i stay silent, sit on the edge, a half empty wicker chair where canvas totes, books are piled—observe this dying killing you, cringe as skin sinks against jawline, hollows knees, shin bones, worse than it did a week ago. can i cook you something? spaghetti, eggs and bacon, sweet potato soup? even as i ask, i know you can only eat broth, mushed bananas. i glance at prescription bottles, listen to frustrations: hospice, morphine, diapers, no energy to walk, play with your dog. i hear pain, sense hands that grab, squeeze—from the alien that grows inside you. we don’t speak of the dying who sits between us, not interested in our conversation, opens freezer drawers, reaches for ice cream, grabs a spoon off your end table on the way back to the tv. we talk about books you’re reading, reruns of star trek: the next generation, the saga of ann of green gables that you watch on dvds over and over again, the screenplay you hope to finish before you go. when there are no words, books, movies to discuss, the light outside fades, you fade—back into a garden of basil and rosemary patterns, the cushions on the couch tuck you in for the night. i stand, trip over the dog’s water bowl, place my hand on the wall to break my fall, touch a portrait, one of two horses you had to give away, hear the gallop of a broken heart as i run my hand across an empty saddle. for Ann Clemons 1957-2020
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Volume 17 • 2022
