Eighty-Eight

Eighty-eight spends much of life in bed,
Interred beyond her time in drugs and pain.
Grateful only for the gift of sleep,
Having lost the will to laugh or weep,
The shrunken doll repeats just one refrain,
Yearning for the comforts of the dead.
Even so, the trail of pills has led
Into a world she grapples with in vain,
Grasping for a grace she cannot keep,
Harsh and vivid hauntings of the brain
That make of life a stew of joy and dread.
Given the Fragility of Life
Given the fragility of life,
Each of us remains a miracle,
Though new emerged from some bright sea of pain.
When every second feels just like a knife
Entering the soft flesh of the will,
Life whispers soon we will be well again.
Linger, then, along the edge of shade;
Soon enough you will be in the sun,
Open-armed, erect, and unafraid.
Old wounds remind us of fierce battles won,
Nor will our patient faith not be repaid.
Cherrie
Cherrie is now using Debbie's kidney,*
Having lost the service of her own.
Each moment of existence is a gift
Replacing just the one one just has left,
Renewing momently the moment gone.
In such a melody each note exactly
Embodies the full grace of what was done.
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