Brian Builta: 4 Poems

September 16
     Saturday

Ron is moving to Houston but spends the day helping me move furniture that won't fit in the death closet. We lunch on the Arroyo patio with top-shelf margaritas. Afterward, Ron naps on the couch, talks about building a swimming pool beneath the statue of St. Francis. Later, we visit mama in the death closet, then dine on fish and drink wine. All day, a vague recollection that today is somebody’s birthday.

     Music drifts down the hall
     without ears to hear it –
     dead batteries

​September 17
     Sunday

Even with death in her pancreas and now in her liver, mama is worried about the clutter on the counter. What is that white bottle there? she asks. Can it be moved into the bathroom? Is that an empty plastic bag? Her filter has blown off. My nurse this morning was a big fat guy, she says. He manhandled me. Please and thank you no longer populate her vocabulary. Mama and I are used to sudden unexpected deaths – a car accident, suicide, botched surgery – but having time to contemplate impending death is new. Some handle this with grace, some do not.

     Four seasons of clothes
     hang in the closet – mama wears
     the same three night gowns

September 18
     Monday

Mama continues to breathe through pain, more peaceful than she was. She’s made of her pain, a friend. Her gown is comfortable, more fresh gowns in the closet. More deep breaths. The lights are low, no television. All is calm, quiet. Three cards from friends come in. We pray that you do not suffer. So sorry to hear the news. Let us know if we can do anything. I suggest mama write a letter to everyone she knows. I have cancer, very aggressive and advanced. You tell me what you can do to help. Otherwise, love.

     The bouquet keeps guard
     on the table by the door,
     petals on the floor

September 19
     Tuesday

Are my teeth yellow? mama asks before the minister arrives. Her lips are tight over her teeth as she sucks in the pain. Can’t see your teeth, mama, I say. Good, she says. The lights are low although it’s the middle of the day and the Tramadol is burrowing into her system. You’ll have to talk for me, she says, fading away, far, farther. I nod. The minister comes in, shakes my hand, then walks to the side of the bed, bends down and kisses mama’s tight forehead.

     Pain meds pulse through veins
     as birds continue to sing
     on shining branches

Brian Builta lives in Arlington, Texas, and works at Texas Wesleyan University in Fort Worth. His work has been published in North of Oxford, Hole in the Head Review, South Florida Poetry Journal, New Ohio Review, TriQuarterly, and 2River View among others. He is the author of A Thursday in June (2024), a collection of poems about his son’s suicide, and more of his poetry can be found at brianbuilta.com.

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