This winter’s waiting is different. Canada
doctor was a bust—my last, best hope. Now
I know what it takes to finally say, Come Lord,
do what you must. I will heal or I won’t—
this is the darkness I have to walk through.
The neurosurgeon asked, Do you want to meet
with the resiliency nurse? And I thought, in that
moment, what do you think has gotten me through
this year? That was in September, when you were still
alive but dying and didn’t know it. The last time I saw you,
I stood where your urn is and said, Leave. And now
I know the sadness on your face was a kind of surrender.
The what ifs are a part of the grief, Amber told me
on the phone today. I called about a bill but
ended up crying instead. Her sister, orange as a summer
sunset a few months ago, is healing, hasn’t touched a drink
since the day she coughed up blood, called her mother and said,
I need help. She’s a miracle. And I am jealous. You didn’t call
anyone—just left the door unlocked, like you were trying
to make the journey less lonely, or make it easier
for them to find you. The autopsy report is pending,
will be final by the end of December. Until then, Mom puts up
the lights. I go to bed early, see your yellow eyes.
Amy Smith’s poetry has appeared in Waxwing, Poetry Northwest, Salamander, Crab Creek Review, and other journals. A former attorney, she holds a JD from Washington & Lee University School of Law. She lives and works on Onondaga land in Central New York.