Poetry with Sherri

During the time I was able to spend with Sherri while she was in hospice care, there were many, many bright and memorable moments. She told me about her dreams, about how much she loved ice cream with M&Ms, about how much she was looking forward to seeing our Grandma Norma. She was madly in love with Mama's pizza, Schlotzsky's sandwiches, and McDonald's breakfast. She could eat with abandon. She even had a little beer and, her favorite, chilled Merlot. She loved kisses on the cheeks, and holding hands. Everything was so simple and pure.

About 36 hours before she passed, I had some time alone with her. She was so, so weak, and barely able to speak, but still lucid when awake. In my attempt to think of something to do or say, I asked if she'd like for me to read her a poem from the New Yorker. "Yeah," she said. "with Merlot." Then she said "Ooh la la!"

So I gave her a sip of Merlot, opened the first New Yorker I could find to the first poem I saw, and started reading.

LOVE STORY
by Virginia Konchan

My body has never been my body.
It has been a bucket of asphalt
upside down in the puerile wind.
My horse faltered at the finish line.
I whipped it and it plunged forth,
like froth on the crest of a wave.
My horse is my body: my body,
my horse. Slick flank, waxen
hair - do not bother to do
the math. My mouth is full
of epithet; my horse is fat
and tame. Touch me.
Announce yourself.
Now is the heroic age.


With the first words I almost regretted reading it, as that first line is so raw considering the condition she was in. But I read it to the end, and we both kind of laughed at how funny it was the we were reading poetry together for the first time. As with any poem I don't know if I'm infusing it with my own meaning, or if there really is some sort of intended death-related message, but it will always be very special for me.