You Say You're On Autopilot to the Hospital

Kaneia Crumlin

You know

how it feels

to live with the dying,

to listen to the dripping

of their breath

You watch reruns

with your aunt in

your family room. Her

barely in a lilac robe--body

humming, eyes glazed. You

wait for her memory

to return if for an hour where

you two could live before her

nurse became her hands and

feet and the left and right hemis-

pheres of her,             memory is

here and there

You remember her

as mother—the constant

ear, arm, voice: sound

judgment, balm. You stay

close, watching rerun

rerun              rerun watch her,

ravished in her body--

puffy and numb.

Kaneia Crumlin is a native Washingtonian who still lives in Washington, DC with her hubs, Chandler, and their two cubs, Britton (2.5yrs-old) and Elle (16mos). She holds an MFA in Creative Writing from American University and enjoys the daily adventure of being a work-at-home-mom. She can be reached at kmcreativeconsulting@gmail.com.