Candle Power in Intensive Care
The unction cools my brow; the candle shines
and forms a line of sacramental brede.
The priest half-chants the text, and makes the signs,
jogging my mind with the redemptive creed
I learned to lisp in church. A night-shift nurse
shows up with rosary beads and borrowed shawl.
I squeeze my morphine pump: the pain is worse.
A gurney clatters down the empty hall.
I wonder what my blur of being meant
To warrant such precautionary flush;
I wonder why the candle's Sunday scent
expands and cloys the sterile room. A hush
folds up all sound; the candle snuffs its flame,
a wisp absconds with my stowaway name.
William F Dougherty
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-crab-sonnets-i/
