At My Grandmother’s House the Week Before She Died

A Poem

Photo by Noah Silliman on Unsplash

Someone has to be with her, always
but not for much longer
my mother sleeps on the couch,
body too exhausted to resist
sleep. I pace the living room,
walk to the screen door,
look out at all that darkness, everything
else that is sleeping
try to take in fresh air
the stink of the place clogs my nose
my throat. It smells of disease.
And her dogs, those goddamn dogs…