Love Song
My father is dying, and my mother
has never been so in love. It’s not
over death she’s swooning;
it’s the sweetness that has softened
him. She lotions and socks his feet, shaves
his cheeks so he’s fresh for their evening
date in the dusk-quilted bed, the oxygen
tank murmuring in the background.
As she fine-tunes the tubes in his nostrils,
she smooths his wisps, sighs, “Oh, sweetheart.”
Julie King