my six aunts and
my six aunts and
uncle gather around
grandma’s hospital
bed, allowing
the performance of
procedure to overtake the
art of living.
Their hands
are collectively
tied in the pursuit
of individual
blamelessness.
grandma looks
on, one against
six, a tube down
her throat, mindful
of cumulative losses.
as in every
situation, time
flexes its
muscles, taunting us
to hold on or let go
while duty,
devotion, and rivalry
measure us for both
.
20180512:1047
y
y 
Death can be an ugly thing but there is usually love too.
true. thank you!