Autumn Sky Poetry . . . Number 14 . . .


     by George Bishop

           for Nan

One month. The distance
to death they say she'll travel.
And for the rest of us
eternity is still, thankfully,
just a word. But a word
whose first letter is a day
closer to becoming capitalized,
brought home.

The cancer almost ceases
to exist, the focus turning
to a cure of our own,
something for those of us
who hide suspicious features
and find themselves falling
out of a dream of trying
to fall asleep.

Finally, we tell her
to let go. Of us.
Then, when she does
we talk about what happened,
give imagination back
its voice. We try to believe,
again, in stethoscopes
as they swing above
clipboards queued with dates
and doses like pendulums.
We sleep better knowing
we can stop along the way
and get some rest, that
something is still
about us.

George Bishop was raised on the Jersey Shore before moving to Florida in 1985. Recent work has appeared in Philadelphia Stories, Freshwater, and The Griffin. His chapbook, Love Scenes, is forthcoming from Finishing Line Press.

© 2009 George Bishop