Witness

by Lynn Valentine

Death is not what I thought it would be,
slow progress of doctors, bed and peace.

I hold her hand, can’t let go,
can’t ring the bell to let others know.

Tough all her life until this illness gripped her,
increasingly weaker ‘til this quarter-hour fight.

A curl of strong fingers, her fury at leaving.
a grasp for my hand like a new-born child.
A wild colt galloping in the corral of her bed,
the mattress her saddle , the blankets her fence.