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ICU

The oxygen mask nearly covers

Denise’s sunken face, her large

blue eyes search frantically for a way

out of the room. I hold her

hand, glance outside.

Below her window

a black van awaits a stretcher

with a body in a black bag.

A man in black overcoat, black

fedora, wheels it to the back

of the van, slides

it in, closes the door.

Denise gasps for air.

Soon husband, daughter, brother

arrive, take turns

holding her hand while they wait

for her to die: wish it would be

soon, hope for a miracle cure,

want spend time with her. 

For her, the future

is a black wall into which

she will dissolve.

For her husband, the funeral,

then nights of take-out food

eaten from containers

in a half-lit kitchen.