I remember death
not by the pitting feeling of gravity
swallowing my stomach,
or the nausea that ensues
as the vertigo sets in,
or the narrowing vision preempting
liquid legs that spill
and overflow as I am drowned
by the darkness that will never cease
for them
laying forever still
at my knees.
No, I do not remember death
for how it burdens my soul.
These deaths are not mine to bear –
I merely shoulder the toll they exact
for but a few minutes,
sometimes nights, weeks, or even months.
I’ve lost count again and again and again.
They are not mine to bear.
They are not mine to bear.
They are not mine to bear.
I remember death instead by those survived
when one is extinguished,
like the amber lights that cease to spin,
the defibrillator that powers down,
the sweaty brows that unfurl and dip,
and the valiant hopes that wane.
I remember death most by those
resigned to hear the last words
I have to offer.
To the grandchildren on the phone
speeding forty minutes away too late
to share this woman’s last meal.
the charred turkey smell lingers deep
into our hungry lungs as we breathe
in and out
into her for the last time.
I’m sorry, but there is nothing more we can do.
To the son frozen while his father hollers,
rapping and tapping on the walls
just as I rap and tap on your mother’s chest
with waning form and speed.
I can only imagine who you were to her.
Her only child, her world, her life.
And yet,
I’m sorry, but we did our very best.
To the daughter singing the alphabet
while your father lay still just past that office door.
At not even six years old, you don’t whimper
when we all fall silent as your father’s heart
remains even after the shocks.
Would it be torture or mercy to lie?
I’m sorry, but your daddy is never coming home.
To the father blaming himself
for all those years he cannot take back,
trying to break past the deputies
and cut the rope suspending his son,
white in the face, blue in the toes.
I’m sorry, but the damage done is final.
To the concussed mother gripping onto life
in the trauma room next to your daughter,
broken and bruised courtesy of the drunk
driver who impaled your car,
who impaled your little girl.
We tried when we knew we’d fail.
I’m sorry, but we did everything we could.
To the wife running out of her house to find
her husband shot sixteen too many times
staining the grass she tried so hard to revive
in this never ending drought.
A mix of his brightest and darkest reds
seep down from the backboard
and into the brittle roots.
I’m sorry, but there’s absolutely nothing we can do.
It’s not death that eats away at me,
a quart of blood or a pound of flesh
for an ounce of soul.
I remember death, instead,
by the faces of those left alive.
of those left to live
with nothing
but my last words.
I’m sorry, but it’s over.
From my days working as a paramedic for Los Angeles.