Donald Hall

                        Last Days

      "It was reasonable
to expect." So he wrote. The next day,
      in a consultation room,
Jane's hematologist Letha Mills sat down,
      stiff, her assistant
standing with her back to the door.
      "I have terrible news,"
Letha told them. "The leukemia is back.
      There's nothing to do."
The four of them wept. He asked how long,
      why did it happen now?
Jane asked only: "Can I die at home?"

      Home that afternoon,
they threw her medicines into the trash.
      Jane vomited. He wailed
while she remained dry-eyed–silent,
      trying to let go. At night
he picked up the telephone to make
      calls that brought
a child or a friend into the horror.
      The next morning,
they worked choosing among her poems
      for Otherwise, picked
hymns for her funeral, and supplied each
      other words as they wrote
and revised her obituary. The day after,
      with more work to do
on her book, he saw how weak she felt,
      and said maybe not now; maybe
later. Jane shook her head: "Now," she said.
      "We have to finish it now."
Later, as she slid exhausted into sleep,
      she said, "Wasn't that fun?
To work together? Wasn't that fun?"

      He asked her, "What clothes
should we dress you in, when we bury you?"
      "I hadn't thought," she said.
"I wondered about the white salwar
      kameez," he said–
her favorite Indian silk they bought
      in Pondicherry a year
and a half before, which she wore for best
      or prettiest afterward.
She smiled. "Yes. Excellent," she said.
      He didn't tell her
that a year earlier, dreaming awake,
      he had seen her
in the coffin in her white salwar kameez.

      Still, he couldn't stop
planning. That night he broke out with,
      "When Gus dies I'll
have him cremated and scatter his ashes
      on your grave!" She laughed
and her big eyes quickened and she nodded:
      "It will be good
for the daffodils." She lay pallid back
      on the flowered pillow:
"Perkins, how do you think of these things?"

      They talked about their
adventures–driving through England
      when they first married,
and excursions to China and India.
      Also they remembered
ordinary days–pond summer, working
      on poems together,
walking the dog, reading Chekhov
      aloud. When he praised
thousands of afternoon assignations
      that carried them into
bliss and repose on this painted bed,
      Jane burst into tears
and cried, "No more fucking. No more fucking!"

      Incontinent three nights
before she died, Jane needed lifting
      onto the commode.
He wiped her and helped her back into bed.
      At five he fed the dog
and returned to find her across the room,
      sitting in a straight chair.
When she couldn't stand, how could she walk?
      He feared she would fall
and called for an ambulance to the hospital
      but when he told Jane,
her mouth twisted down and tears started.
      "Do we have to?" He canceled.
Jane said, "Perkins, be with me when I die."
      "Dying is simple," she said.
"What's worst is . . . the separation."
      When she no longer spoke,
they lay alone together, touching,
      and she fixed on him
her beautiful enormous round brown eyes,
      shining, unblinking,
and passionate with love and dread.

      One by one they came,
the oldest and dearest, to say goodbye
      to this friend of the heart.
At first she said their names, wept, and touched;
      then she smiled; then
turned on mouth-corner up. On the last day
      she stared silent goodbyes
with her hands curled and her eyes stuck open.

      Leaving his place beside her,
where her eyes stared, he told her,
      "I'll put these letters
in the box." She had not spoken
      for three hours, and now Jane said
her last words: "O.K."
                                   At eight that night,
      her eyes opened as they stayed
until she died, brain-stem breathing
      started, he bent to kiss
her pale cool lips again, and felt them
      one last time gather
and purse and peck to kiss him back.

      In the last hours, she kept
her forearms raised with pale fingers clenched
      at cheek level, like
the goddess figurine over the bathroom sink.
      Sometimes her right fist flicked
or spasmed toward her face. For twelve hours
      until she died, he kept
scratching Jane Kenyon's big bony nose.
      A sharp, almost sweet
smell began to rise from her open mouth.
      He watched her chest go still.
With his thumb he closed her round brown eyes.

Donald Hall, Without: Poems, Mariner Books, 2007.