Poetry

John Foulcher: Two Poems

Your Own Words For Jane   Your father is a small, withered thing in the hospital sheets. He scavenges in his lungs for another breath, finds the husk of a breath. Am I dying? he says. Yes, Dad, you are. Your poor old body is giving in. The minutes click and grind away talk, the air convulses and no one knows anything. It’s alright, Dad. You can go now. And he does. You hold your sisters and they fold into you. You call and let me know it’s over, I can come. Already, arrangements for the funeral are stiffening up.…

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