Posted by deborah

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I wrote five poems in the airport on the way to see my grandmother in April. I knew that would be the last time I’d want to write for a long time.

Now that notebook is filled with notes of who owned the linens, the 150-year-old china, and so on. It’s also written with the start of essays about the “end-of-life process” as hospice social workers call it. I have opinions on death. I have a lot to say about doctors and nurses and about people calling a spade a spade. It’ll feel good to get to this prose.

Before prose, poetry.

First, I’ll look back at those five drafts and see what, if anything, can be made from them. At the time, they seemed like they could go somewhere. I’ve been tricked by the muse before though.