by Samantha Farley

Faintly, I remember the ending hours

when sunshine provided a welcomed pause

from the stench of Clorox

and stillness

clinging, relentless

to my insides.

Gently, the wheelchair would glide

as an extension of your body

through the courtyard,

a thick expanse of green

and reminders of God.

From the rubber handles,

I could feel your inhales—

tainted with timidity—

I could feel your lungs collapse

like folding chairs

and your ribs clatter

with the shallow swells of disruption.

Inside a column of light,

I would plant your sallow complexion

(vaguely resembling something

of phylo-dough

and cellophane)

and sit across from you,

my hips hitting the cement of the bench,

a clamber of bones that shook me.

In those final hours,

the sunshine washed us with normalcy,

dried us of reality,

and we’d let words hum and vibrate—

sweet and slick—

easily through breathes of breeze.

Humor would catch the corners

of your mouth,

unaware.

And familiar crevices would cut

through the tired landscape

of your face

as though our world was free

of jaundiced skin

and premature endings.