She's just conscious
enough now I, Helen
to realize that bits
of her skull
take you, Frank
are encrusted in her brain,
like broken eggshells
ruining to be my husband
an otherwise perfectly
good omelet.
She tries
to have and to hold
to count how
many omelets
from this day forward
she's made
for the very man
for better or worse
who put her
for richer, for poorer
in this wretched
in sickness and in health
hospital bed, but
her mind keeps
spinning
to love and to cherish
like her daughter's
red top on the
milking stool,
which always
from this day forward
falls victim
to gravity, no matter
'til d**h do us part
how carefully she spins it
who will care for the hens?