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Poem written for “In the Dark, Silent Night,” poetry contest, Anoucheka Gangabissoon, sponsor, February 5, 2026.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Each morning I count his breaths, then the pills, then grocery lists, then hypotheticals~ mornings brittle as eggshells in a too-empty carton. His breath, a slow tidal~ my lighthouse flickers nightly. What shore waits for me when the waves recede elsewhere, barefoot on cold linoleum? My skin is like tracing paper, each crease a story no one reads~ who'll turn my frail pages when my hands forget their alphabet? Our pills rattle like dice in the ceramic bowl. I count his ribs through the thinning cotton~ his breathing the only clock I trust. We planted oaks once~ roots deep, outlasting our bones. Now their shade stretches, but who will sit under them when our names are just leaves? Wintertime: snow fills the entry way. Neighbors salt their own first. I should've had sons~ or daughters who'd remember how ice clings to old bones longest. I imagine a future in which the nurse’s smile stings. Just ring if you need help, dear~ as if the button’s reach isn’t the whole aching distance between pride and the floor.
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