The doctor with the bluest eyes,
an exact match for his uniform,
tells me the dark news tenderly.
Hours later, my brother drags on air,
his tube removed, blue eyes open,
raised like a supplicating saint.
Though he’s no saint, just a man,
flawed as humans are, who
muddled along as people do.
We have to leave in the early hours.
He cannot hear my goodbyes.
We drive home in June darkness.
The moon’s a cruel scythe, bright
as a spotlight, unwavering. a rabbit
runs from the hedge into the car’s path.
The small life is annihilated, swifter
than my brother, who labours on
fourteen hours more. He always
took the quietest road, giving in so easily.
I never thought he’d fight so hard to live.