SUZANNE NUSSEY
Saint Julian Press Poet
Poems from SLOW WALK HOME
Nocturne
Outside the hospital window, July fireworks bloom over
treetops on the night horizon. For hours I have stayed by
my mother’s bed. Sometimes we talk; often she dozes.
Earlier we listened to the Four Last Songs on the radio. I
wonder if she knew them. My mother is dying. This
evening she said her last goodbyes to my husband and
daughter. Now she asks to sleep.
How clearly she desires her end. How long she has worked
to accomplish it as she has wanted: following doctors’
orders, not burdening her children, not complaining,
refusing drugs that cloud her mind and fool her body. She
has earned the rest she longs for.
A volley of fireworks, barely audible on our side of the
hospital wall, explodes with the soft pop of an impatiens
dispersing its seed. I watch my mother, who has fallen
asleep.
I must not lose my way in this silence.
A voice, weedy and diminished, startles me. My mother is
singing Brahms’ Lullaby. Her voice comes from far away, a
spooky imitation of the voice that sang at my bedside when
I was a child, or more somberly in church. This small voice
twists like smoke toward the ceiling of her room
and vanishes.
Outside the hospital window, July fireworks bloom over
treetops on the night horizon. For hours I have stayed by
my mother’s bed. Sometimes we talk; often she dozes.
Earlier we listened to the Four Last Songs on the radio. I
wonder if she knew them. My mother is dying. This
evening she said her last goodbyes to my husband and
daughter. Now she asks to sleep.
How clearly she desires her end. How long she has worked
to accomplish it as she has wanted: following doctors’
orders, not burdening her children, not complaining,
refusing drugs that cloud her mind and fool her body. She
has earned the rest she longs for.
A volley of fireworks, barely audible on our side of the
hospital wall, explodes with the soft pop of an impatiens
dispersing its seed. I watch my mother, who has fallen
asleep.
I must not lose my way in this silence.
A voice, weedy and diminished, startles me. My mother is
singing Brahms’ Lullaby. Her voice comes from far away, a
spooky imitation of the voice that sang at my bedside when
I was a child, or more somberly in church. This small voice
twists like smoke toward the ceiling of her room
and vanishes.
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Saint Julian Press, Inc. * Houston, TX 77008 * Ron Starbuck ~ Publisher-CEO
Email: ronstarbuck@saintjulianpress.com * Web: www.saintjulianpress.com
Saint Julian Press, Inc. * Houston, TX 77008 * Ron Starbuck ~ Publisher-CEO
Email: ronstarbuck@saintjulianpress.com * Web: www.saintjulianpress.com
SAINT JULIAN PRESS, INC. © 2022
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As an Amazon Associate — Saint Julian Press, Inc. may earn funds from any qualifying purchases.
This arrangement does help to sustain the press and allow us to publish more books by more authors.