By Nancy Shoerke

Author’s Note:

I’ve never felt inclined to write poetry, but on Christmas morning I was listening to the New Yorker Radio Hour. One story got my attention. Before Covid a poet laureate at the Library of Congress traveled around the country and arranged readings periodically with various PLs who read their poetry, aired during the program. As I listened I wondered if I could write something. To my surprise the following came together quickly.

Christmas 2022

Four months ago today
“Dad died,” she said.
I leap out of bed, go to his side.
Weeping, I embrace his cold body
for the last time.
His ventilator continues breathing.
There’s no time to linger.
We tuck ice packs behind his neck,
 his head, his spine.
It’s time for his final act of service,
to give his brain and spinal cord to science
for ALS research..

 

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