Confession
       

I complained, in my heart, when you coughed through the night
and, exhausted, I cursed when you turned on the light.
And each time I discovered you gasping for air,
I knelt on the bed and I uttered a prayer
as I lifted your arms to help you to breathe—
gaunt arms upraised like some withered wreath—
that it soon would be over and I would be free
of this burden that love had imposed on me.

At the funeral, weeping, enduring their praise,
I accepted the homage of friends for the days
and long nights of unending, unwavering care
they supposed I had offered—despite the despair
I must surely have felt as I helped you to die.
They were right; it was true. But it felt like a lie.

Tweet
Copyright © 2022 John Biguenet All rights reserved
from The Southern Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission