Terrie Joplin
Last Wishes
1.
I know when my mom said, It’s time, my dad
and sister drove her to the hospital
to die that night—
returning home, drinking coffee,
waiting for the doctor’s call—just as she wanted,
the lymphoma having burst her body—
she, alone behind a closed door,
her ashes sprinkled to green
a cloistered space, stroke
its geraniums, roses,
a gathering
of bees.
2.
I know that after hers, my dad said, No chemo—
just knives—and his water wing in the warm ocean
could buoy the missing lung quarter
but not breathe,
and one kidney could pump double—
and when he couldn’t lift
himself,
one leg, then the other, fell—
and his breath left behind my brother’s back,
and his remaining ashes
lifted above Lindbergh’s Maui grave,
falling
from the promontory
onto swirling Pacific blues,
the trailing white plume
of a tropicbird
passing by
3.
I know I’ll say, Hospice, please, and partner
with a living will I wave—
but symptoms shapeshift, diagnoses delay
and differ—and autoimmune diseases
don’t flay alone, and my burl
of a hand won’t press
the medical Stop button in time—
but my ashes will fly
onto the sparkling mica of a child’s
pocketed rock,
the lichen filigree on a tree’s north
side, a harbor walker’s
cheek,
the cosmic wind
flinging them
onto Cassiopeia’s knee—
and off again—
Terrie Elaine Joplin has taught language and literature in public schools in Washington, Illinois, and North Carolina, holds a BA and MS in education and National Board Certification, and finished her career in the International Baccalaureate Program. She is a member of the Poetry Craft Collective, has work published in Pteranadon and ONE ART, and resides with her daughter’s family in Mamaroneck, NY.