September 12
Tuesday
Airport run. The prodigal son returns from Santa Barbara to
see his dying mama. Straight there, no dinner. She’s in bed
with the light off at 7:45 p.m. She hardly moves as he kisses
her pale papery skin. She seems happily dazed. How was the
hospice nurse today, mama? I ask. She was a bitch, mama says
calmly. A bitch named Princess. She quietly complains about the
food, the care, the pain, the temperature of the room. Her
eyes have given up. She closes them to speak to God.
Chapstick stands bedside
man-handled to crusty lips,
patient little soldier
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.