natalie dorfeld

Gary


My seventh grade boyfriend died
yesterday.
He was 35.

He succumbed to mouth cancer -- never chewed or smoked
a day in his life.

I asked to see him repeatedly, but he said no.
His striking profile had been eaten away,
replaced by wires,
bones from his leg,
and unsightly drainage tubes.

I held his hand the day before they unplugged him.
It was warm to the touch.

The boy I once worshipped in study hall,
now an empty shell of his former self.
He will no longer suffer, we catatonically reassured ourselves,
as the family made calls and
prepared for the inevitable.

As his sister and I left the hospital,
we passed a row of doctors and nurses smoking.
I looked each one of them in the eye and
said nothing.