Portrait in IMC
(Allyson Whipple)

You wake up, and
call for your husband.
I remember
that's what my aunt did
with her last breath,
so now I'm worrying
that it's the end.

Just as suddenly,
you fall back to sleep,
your legs kicking death away.

I sit and meditate
on your fighting frame.

Every now and then
you groan, as if
the act of resting
is too much work.

It's not yet solstice, and
the afternoon spreads
into night.
Soon, it's too dark to
see, and all I
have is the sound
of your tired breathing.

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