Skip to content


My mother's every exhale is

somewhere between a rasp

and a scream now.

Hospice says they'll bring

phenobarbital in the morning.

Between us we have

--new bottle of morphine

--the dog's phenobarbital

--three syringes of Parry's insulin

--methadone, Haldol, etc.

Parry and I discuss combinations.

We want the best for our mother.

We do not want

to fuck this

one up.

   -- October 22, +/- 2 a.m.







                              On the phone, my brother Whit

                              says Don't Google it.

My mother's every exhale is

Jane Mead

More from
Poem of the Week

Ann Lauterbach


Mira Rosenthal


translated from the Polish written by
Tomasz Różycki