Sleeping
On top, a pale, thin blanket, gray; below
A plain white sheet, and next a pink, strong pink
And white-striped nightie, then the scratched up dough
Of old-age flesh, no use to try to prink
Her up with wig or Positano clothes
She bought in Venice. Such enchantments would
Hide scabbed up, yellow skin. She tries to doze
Inside the gauze of morphine. Still no good
Will come from in the layers death will bring
Except the darkest peace. In them no gray,
Or white, or pink will live. Her soul will sing
Its silent lullaby where nighttimes weigh.
When she is gone, the scabs will burn to white
Of ash . . . and she will be in painless night.
~ Phillip Whidden