From the Obituary

By Trevor Morey

Sometimes white coats
can blind one from white flags.
Lost.
A white dove
Trapped in a blizzard.

All white.
White coats, white walls, white lights, white sheets.
Easy to bleach.
All white.

I’m glad you heard the dove,
chased it through the night.
Battery low,
high-beams on.
Thin ice on the roads
and there is traffic both ways.

You saw me there,
I was not getting better.
The roads more familiar
did not take us to familiar destinations.
You removed your map from the glove box and
tossed it out the window.

We don’t talk about death like we should,
as though it is not as natural as birth.

But there is grace in a good death.
We learn to spend the time
we spent so much time
saving.
Quarters for rainy days.

And so a dove will land
on another patient’s windowsill.
Peering in,
out of the snow.

And I know you’ll understand what it meant to me
to let my dove spread its wings,
to hear its beautiful song,
followed by calming darkness all at once.

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