Traveling In

The nurse told us that,

“They must relax into it.”

And we watched her

flesh become gray

blue shadows,

her fingers become flaccid

cold doll’s hands, waxed.

There was lots of time.

It worked outward from the center,

taking first the pulse then

the breath going in and out,

loosening the jaw,

the chin finally unable to lift itself

at all.

“It is our belief that she can hear you,”

the nurse said.

So we told her goodbye and

other appropriate things,

watching each word attach to her breath

and travel in until

something pulled free

and her breathing stopped.

I sighed a long breath,

the way they tell you to breathe

when the pain is over,

which it was.

Originally published in Spoon River Poetry Review 28:1 (2003)