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The called it an episode, they called it an
event,
As if it were narrative, as if it were spectacle, her first
Embolism and then the second, a week later, but mostly
It was waiting for the nothing we hoped would happen,
In the ER, in the cubicles, and then in the ward,
A week’s worth, with an ex-nurse in the other bed
Who’d smoked too long, asked again for more meds,
Because she knew what she wanted, tried again
To rip off the oxygen mask. And the first thing
I gave up was narrative, since who wanted the ending
Circumstances implied, and the second was witness, since
There was so much I didn’t think I could afford to see.
It was only sound I waited for, footsteps in the hall
Meaning they were bringing more pills, or
That the doctor with the Russian accent had another
Question to ask, answer not to give, story to tell
About how his father died just this way, and all
I wanted for the next big event anyway was a remake
Of a story we’d all but forgotten, some ordinary day.
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