The Withholding

Time for goodbye, mother said.

I thought my uncle would say it,

but she said, No—we are the ones.

Beside a slatted blind, his arm lifted

and lifted from the wrist as if drawn

by a string. Mother slid to the linoleum,

Reaching, the nurse said, for his

loved ones waiting.

I tried to feed him a sip of water.

He clamped the cut straw between

his teeth, where it stuck out—

rakish, like a cigar.

The nurse squeezed his cheeks

until the straw tumbled onto his

sheeted chest. Only if they ask, she said.

In the family lounge, I didn’t weep

because I would miss him.

It was the water, that straw.

The fierce mercy of withholding.