Exquisite

She never was one to complain:
Her voice cut me open to the core.
She was a woman in exquisite pain.

In the ER, her face a sickly pallor
flushed suddenly a yellowish-green.
She never was one to complain.

The doctor placed his hand on my shoulder
like no doctor ever had before.
He said, She’s very sick, in exquisite pain.

White coat, stethoscope, little time to explain.
The shock in her eyes was hard to ignore
though she was never one to complain.

The heft of her coffin, hard on my shoulder,   
had been a difficult weight to bear.
Small mercies, she’s no longer in exquisite pain. 

I thought I saw her on the 5:54,
glimpsed a wave, oh what a smile she wore.
She never was one to complain
Memories of her are exquisite, lessen the pain.

PHILIP BYRNE

Philip Byrne is a Dublin-born retired teacher living in Westchester, New York who is pursuing his dream of letting life catch up to him and attempting to capture those moments of memory and observation in his poetry.