The International Women's Writing Guild
In the pantheon of the canonized, I do not see Saint Alice.
Nurses pray to St. Agatha.
Healers and exorcists revere St. Anastasia.
Mothers, the original healers, genuflect to St. Anne.
If there is a God, my ticket of admission to heaven is the number of people
who laughed with me,
But if God subtracts those I brought to tears,
what will that reckoning reveal?
I told the woman, after the surgeons closed her belly,
that nothing could be done.
Her bowel, now gangrenous, would rupture soon,
and she would die.
Her future, to be measured in hours,
held no miracle, only tears.
“ What can we do to make you comfortable?” I asked through my own tears.
She smiled. “Well then, can I have some ice cream?”
I found your poem moving and well crafted. I love your coupling of your sense of humor with your unique experience as a nurse. You were respectful of your patient yet showed how she responded to the news of her imminent death in an unexpected way. Your humility and caring are evident. Thank you for sharing your poem.
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