by Carol L. Gloor

What do you say
when your son
lies unconscious
on the hospital bed?

When he weighs
only eighty pounds,
punctured by tubes
for two months now?

When his back brain
still thuds his heart,
flares his lungs,
but the frontal lobe,
place of words and love,
does nothing?

What do you say
when his hand is warm
skin over bones?

What do you say
to the nurse who turns him
so he will not rot into sores?

What do you say
to the gift shop lady’s
Have a nice day?

Which road do you take?
Which turns?
When nothing will lead you
to a house you can live in.

Carol L. Gloor writes poetry to stay alive. She has two books: a chapbook, Assisted Living (2013), and a full-length collection, Falling Back (2019). Her most recent work appears in Earth’s Daughters and The Vassar Review. She knows it’s time for another book, but her energy is failing her because of politics. She lives peacefully on the banks of the Mississippi with her husband and three cats.