The Visit

His hair is spiked by the hospital bed, with oxygen
mask straps haltered there, a Roman soldier from
Spartacus. He moves only his eyes like a downed
horse who senses he will never stand again.

A respiratory therapist cheerily says he’s
just fine to the gaggle of his siblings standing
in fear for him. None of us has an elixir to
to get him on his feet.

Through the thick plastic shield over mouth
and nose, his lips move in talking motions and
we repeatedly lean in to hear nothing. His voice
is vapor, unable to carry thanks, or hope or fear.

His teeth show through. Are you smiling? I ask.
I think he means to nod yes. Smiling at what, I
wonder? our lame humor in lieu of tools for some
reversal, a memory of sailing, a Heavenly trip?

His older hair is darker than mine. Except
for his departed muscles, he looks younger
than I; there is a new dignity at this plateau.
Without speech, wrapped to his neck in blue

hospital bedding, oxygen blown in, no ability
to adjust arms or legs, he weakly squeezes my hand
to hold us at his side after we have announced
our leaving. He was known for his rage against

that last good night. His going was expected,
and the delicate matter of timing floated unspoken
among us, because time is short for us all. His departure
announces the passing of our era. Now my brother is gone.

My selfish, demanding, always-thinking brother
is gone, and I am less than I was before. His late and
deep faith was pushed on us siblings with missionary
zeal, perhaps with hopes of a Heavenly reunion.