The Uncertainty of Night

As hours meant to be quiet
and easy, shuffle by,
parceled into slow
minutes, I invite you
into my narrow bed.

You resist but need
an hour’s release before
you leave to direct the morning
funeral. You curl tight
beside me under the cotton
blanket. We share
the thin pillow.

Behind our curtain
in the staccato quiet
of the emergency
room, we sleep interrupted
by persistent beeps, by nurses
who take vitals, by doctors
who enter with probing
questions and hands. Your
answers project calm as I lie
prone, the panic building.

At dawn you leave
to calm the grief
of families not your own,
but first, you sit
in my car and sob,
as I am wheeled alone
into the operating
room where a team
will continue to look
for answers.

Ann E. Wallace writes of life with illness, motherhood, and other everyday realities. Her poetry collection Counting by Sevens is forthcoming from Main Street Rag Publishing. Her work, recently published in journals such as Blood Sugar Poetry, Wordgathering, The Literary Nest, as well as Eunoia Review, can be found on her website. She lives in Jersey City, NJ, and is on Twitter @annwlace409.

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1 Response to The Uncertainty of Night

  1. Ingrid says:

    Emotions sharp and palpable. Thank you for sharing.

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