Barbara MacKay


―published Lynx, xv-2, 2000

Her words lost in a ragged whisper
The hum of the feeding tube a prolonged whisper

Ninety-five, in extremis but lingering―good genes, good genes
Echo in my mind, but it’s time now I whisper

The room is lined with eggshells
Mind wanderings hang along a string of vibrant whispers

The umbilical cord, so hard to sever
Childish whimpers deepen into adult whispers

Night fades into dawn into another midnight watch
Her eyes open, close; her last breath a hollow whisper

I leave the room almost free of obligation
My conscience barely whispering