Your big toe gave you away.
It wiggled and that meant
foot rub please, Dad.
Your eyes were closed,
but I could feel the vibes
all the way from your brain.
I could press harder now
because of the meds.
I could even go between your toes,
forbidden when you were well.
I might even get kicked.
But not here in the hospice.
The cancer had stolen your reflexes.
It had numbed you swollen feet.
It had slowly taken the fight out of you.
You were even wearing your hair in a bun,
tight off your lovely forehead,
severely pulled to the back,
as if to better show
the anxiety on your face.
Back to Poetry Galley
Mad in America hosts blogs by a diverse group of writers. These posts are designed to serve as a public forum for a discussion—broadly speaking—of psychiatry and its treatments. The opinions expressed are the writers’ own.
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