Poem: WHAT YOU LEFT, by Robin Greene

—for my brother, Gary

A hundred-twenty pounds on a home-hospital bed

a catheter filled with urine

a bag of liquid shit

one bereft fifteen-year-old daughter

another daughter, twenty-one, grieving but okay

an infant granddaughter

a divorced, crazy woman, once your wife

a cup of stale water on a makeshift nightstand

a mother who will always see you as a promising boy

a sister—me—to whom you refused to speak

five pills on a paper napkin,

fourteen-hundred dollars stashed in a dictionary

the metallic smell of your liver cancer

two gambling debts to the Miami mafia,

your half smile before letting go

your bones turned to ash,

the smell of you and then

nothing.

Author: poetryfest

Submit your Poetry to the Festival. Three Options: 1) To post. 2) To have performed by an actor 3) To be made into a film. View all posts by poetryfest