DEATH Poem: GOOD NIGHT, GOOD MOURNING, by Brendan Alpiner

The alarm doesn’t ring
but still I wake
at 3:00 sharp. It is the middle
of the night and I’m still thinking about you
and how you won’t wake up
today.

Tell me:
is it funny or sad or both
that I can’t seem to fall asleep
and you’re not allowed to do anything
but?

Tell me:
why do doctors wear white?
They’re not angels no matter how much they want
to be, higher than heaven,
on a cloud above, flagging down spirits
like lost airplanes. The nurses
who take care of you
know better; they wear blue
because they know the color
of your eyes, and they’re trying to reflect you
back to you, trying to call you
back awake. If the doctors were smarter,
the’d wear something just as dark
as the place
you’re in. I’m sorry

for all this rambling, this poetry.
Tragedies don’t require words
yet here I am, writing you away
into some notebook somewhere
documenting you like a world war,
a fight inside the skin, a battle between the bone and
blood. I’m sorry

again.Your bones are not at war
with your blood. A car is,
gravity is, the universe is, God is
at war. They all want you
more asleep than my pillow
does and they all must think my arms
now hugging a blanket named you that is not you
aren’t suited any more.

And they’re right.
This sheet doesn’t have
your Disney-prince hair, your swimmer
build, your last minute dash
of Picasso smile, your twinkle.
It only holds enough space to keep
my head above water,
not beneath it.

One last time, I’m sorry.

I just hope I can fall asleep
tonight.

But I can see the moon
peeking between the blinds
and whispering something,
the same thing she whispered to you
that night God searched and searched
and for some damned reason sang

that one could use a break,
a little nap, a rest
somewhere that isn’t here
or anywhere.