WE ONCE SAID DUH AND NO DUH BUT WE WOULD MEAN EXACTLY THE SAME THING | Woods Nash

My very own definitive death is no
particular thing. Unlike the pink chunk of marble
I once cribbed from a creek. My death’s far
from the sweep of the great horned owl 
who once stretched her wings
over my car on a gravel road 
in Kentucky. My death could never be 
pocketable, or timely, 
and will have grounds for lodging
an official complaint
against having been married
to a personal pronoun. For now, 
that highly local, un-special, eventual 
end is more like the dream
that wafts behind me, back there
in bed, where my wife is still ensconced
in flannel, as I sit out here typing
and swigging gobs of too-strong coffee.
In the dream she was ten weeks pregnant
with cancer. Only months, doctors told us. 
The high-tech treatment centers
were helpless. We’re so sorry, said everyone.
And all night I dipped in and out of sleep 
as a cyclist climbs and succumbs
to hills, for moments convinced 
of her impending demise, 
then rising to pee, flinching at the cold
porcelain seat and telling myself
it had all been nonsense. In the dream
she had never looked more gorgeous,
our houseplants gleamed, our dishes
unchipped, but still I couldn’t not consider 
just how many young and single women 
were exceptionally sympathetic.
No! back now to the one I love, 
my pregnant and metastatic spouse. 
To helping her bathe. Putting braids 
in her hair. Hearing her whisper on the phone
to someone from the funeral home.
She was taking our whole life 
with her. The agonized hours were all
we had and yet we wanted more.
We couldn’t make ourselves say goodbye.
Soon she’ll wake and I’ll crack three eggs, 
break their yolks, and fry them together
in sesame oil. And soon I’ll toast
two vanilla bean scones. Good morning,
we’ll say. Good morning. Very soon
this day will become any other.

Woods Nash is an Assistant Professor of Bioethics and Medical Humanities at the University of Houston Fertitta Family College of Medicine.

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