DOLOR
He was still there the next day when I returned
In spite of having an order for hourly morphine
Oxygen levels decreasing
Pulse and temperature rising
Cool cloths and a light sheet
A warm room crowded with the extended family of ten children
At times spilling into the hallway
Sweet smell lingering, wood smoke on clothing in the midst of winter
Last rites given with song and prayer
He continued waiting for a son who never came
** ** **
Pain transcends the body
Pain has so many shapes
Pain is in the universal language
Holding ten fingers up
Dolor?
(Dolor- Latin noun.
- pain, ached, hurt
- anguish, grief, sorrow
- indignation, resentment, anger)
© Barbara Jackson 2018
I love the austerity of words here. If a poem is meant to transport us somewhere, this one does. It takes me to a similar room.
I remember many, many things about that place. The walls were yellow, the floor was speckled, and the bed powder coated, bright white. The room was hard, hard tile floor, hard brick walls, each step an unwelcome clack. The room had been a hell house of pain for days. It was quiet now, just ragged useless breaths. The pain was veiled now, it was just me, alone, watching my mother. Finally, the last breath, gurgled and gone. I tried to shut her eyes but they wouldn’t close. I tried to close her gaping mouth but blood poured out. I walked out and found some doctors. I let them know.
There have been many days where I have thought that I would have been better off to have never acquired that memory. The oddest thing is that I know that isn’t true.