Little Sister

swaddled in hospital blankets

            ironic as you draw near the end.

hard sterile table in a cold sterile room

            cornered is the murky shadow of death,

            but remove you from my swaths I do not.

stoic as white marble I should be

            but I am not. Even for you

            I tremble and fret, fraught with tension.

shadow turns real as razors reveal pink flesh.

the first stab of death arrives

            cloudy liquid to cloud your brain---

            even I am a stranger now.

all too soon and not quick enough

            the second needle slips into your veins

            clear and sharp as diamond, liquid travels as a bullet

            straight to your beating heart.

one last thump

and you are gone.