Skip to content

Log Out

×

Poetry

An old man was dying in the hospital,
—-my friend the doctor told me.

He was eighty-nine, his whole life a tailor in a shop
—-below the room where he was born.

He had no one, so a kind aide from Ghana
—-sat with him, one hand in his

the other holding her sandwich. The waves
—-on the monitor slowed. His heart

was a small red boat on the long tide
—-going out. At the end he opened

his eyes. Cool air, Cool air, he said, and because it
—-was the twelfth floor, the windows sealed,

the aide leans over and exhales softly on the top of
—-his head, to ruffle his hair a bit,

and they stay like that for a few minutes until
—-he dies, his face turned to the breeze.

That was a long time ago. My friend is gone;
—-the hospital’s become a vacant lot.

Some nights I wake with those words in my ear,
—-unsure if they’re the plea of the old Jew

or the answering breath of the African woman,
—-or the beautiful lie that binds them,

like a dart and a seam; the cold clarity of glass
—-and the wide blue draft beyond.

Image depends on its subscribers and supporters. Join the conversation and make a contribution today.

+ Click here to make a donation.

+ Click here to subscribe to Image.


The Image archive is supported in part by an award from the National Endowment for the Arts.

Receive ImageUpdate, our free weekly newsletter featuring the best from Image and the world of arts & faith

* indicates required