By Nick Macco
She says sorry when she coughs
Like she’s
embarrassed
Or ashamed
-
As if death is failure
As if time
were hers
-
But I smile at it
and I catch
her eyes
-
I say
Mom, you don’t have to apologize
-
She labors for air
She labors for
composure
-
And we sit
silent with the fresh oak hissing
over still heated
embers