I thought of evenings we had spent
with Plato. I remembered too
how she had turned quite vehement
on hospitals, and then I knew.
I helped prepare the garden shed
as she had asked. A little shelf
for books (Catullus) and a bed
almost as narrow as herself.
A cat-flap for the only soul
allowed to see her 'indisposed'
(her word for cancer). Self control
her vade mecum, I supposed.
An easy bolt for weakened hands
to close against the helpful, who
would take her where the world demands
unquestioning surrender to
a doctor's whim. A private place
where garden air might ease her pain.
No tubes to rape a dying face.
No drips, save for the falling rain.