I wrote "Tasting Iron" in memory of my Nana, Helen Dushner who died on January 18, 2008. While I was growing up, she was a large part of my life, and I was devastated by her death. This poem is an account of that death and the life that lead up to it. In the end, I was fortunate enough to be in the room as she took her last breaths, and as hard as it was, I'm glad that I had that time with her. This was one of the first poems I ever published, and it is included in my collection The Conditions We Live. (4 minute read)
It was snowing that morning I remember
because there was a two-hour delay and I had just reset my alarm
The phone rang and I let the machine get it
her tremulous voice came over the speaker in the other room
8:00
“Call me when you get this . . . it’s . . . well gimme a call.”
I knew what it was; there was no need to call her back
“You don’t have to come. It might not be . . . could be a false alarm”
When
“Do what you think is best . . . I’ll understand”
Now
I made the phone calls:
. . . can you
. . . thanks
. . . yes, I need coverage.
The drive over was hard. Crystal flakes settling on my windshield
it was snowing that morning, I remember because there was a two-hour delay
It was raining inside too but the wipers didn’t take care of that
did I turn on the radio or listen to the snow floating?
8:30
I walked into her room and heard it,
so that’s what a death-rattle sounds like
I couldn’t help it.
She would have been upset. She could have been a movie star,
Knowing how she looked now never went out unless she was all dolled up.
she was a fragile shell of herself There’s this picture of her at the beach
laying in her bed, eyes closed standing next to her Andy,
it was like she wasn’t even there. she could have been Marilyn Monroe.
I listened to the air rattle inside her
I remember it sounded painful
She inhaled shallow, laborious, slow
It was snowing that morning
held it for a minute as if savoring the moments
could be a false alarm
then the soft gurgle of the air escaping her mouth
“It doesn’t hurt her . . . doesn’t even notice it.”
I do
“that patch is more for the family, dries it up.”
10:00
We called the priest.
“We could bring in a harpist?”
We laugh . . . Can’t you see that . . . see her . . .
“What the hell is that thing?”
We laugh again . . . got any Jazz?
That’s more her speed . . . Yah and a highball
Man did she love to dance.
“I remember when she would sing . . . beautiful voice.”
“I remember when she would take us out in the snow and spin the car out.”
It was snowing that morning I remember
1:30
The snow had stopped when the priest came.
He commented on the beautiful day.
I remember it was snowing
The sun shone brightly
Let us pray . . . Our Father
I bit my lip
who art in heaven. Hallowed be Thy name.
it wouldn’t be right to cry
Thy kingdom come, thy will be done,
I tasted iron
on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day
the snow
our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses
I can’t say the words
as we forgive those who trespass against us.
I bite harder.
Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.
blood from my blood, flesh from my flesh
Thine is the power, and the kingdom and the glory forever
she taught me this
Amen.
He leaves us. He was sorry, but he had to hurry. He had appointments to keep.
They turned her on her side. She looked more comfortable.
“Do you think she can hear?”
Yes
The other tenants murmur in the hall, they know
It was snowing that morning
They gather at the door as if it were a nightclub
she was a partier . . . boy did she party
But velvet ropes keep them out
I still taste the iron
I wiped the stuff from her face.
She would not have liked it
. . . she was always so particular about her appearance
what else could I do? It was settled in her cheek, the patch wasn’t working
thick strings running down her face, it looked uncomfortable so I wiped it away.
What else could I do . . . she wouldn’t have liked it.
2:00
She opens her eyes for the first time that day.
It was snowing that morning
I kiss her forehead and say I love you.
I tell my mother her eyes are open.
she coos softly to her,
“it’s okay, your Andy’s waiting.”
She was always afraid of the dark.
“we love you”
Laughing over her bed, my aunt and I.
I don’t even know why.
“we love you, it’s okay, go to your Andy”
Laughter
hey . . .
Is she . . .
What?
How do we . . .
she is.
The little girl, newly old, crawls into bed with her mother
. . . she cries
2:30
we sit witnesses to why we were there
mouths that cannot speak, minds that cannot think
It was snowing that morning I remember
that painful numbness that is left,
silence falls on us in heavy flakes
4:00
The only sound was the ticking clock on the wall.