ann e. wallace
The woman watched as her husband took his last
breath.
They were home, he had the virus, this was not
their choice. There is no comfort in dying
at home during a pandemic.
There was no peace for the dying man
who left his wife sick, frightened
alone, at home, with no money
for a funeral, no money
for someone to come
and take the body.
There was no solace for the wife
when the police came, noted
her loss and left her home,
with her illness, her grief,
her love lying still in their bed.
At a time like this, there was too little left
for a family that had nothing but love
holding it together.
There is no comfort in dying
at home during a pandemic.
***
Ann E. Wallace is a poet who lives in Jersey City, New Jersey. Her poetry collection, Counting by Sevens, is available from Main Street Rag (2019), and she has published poems in numerous journals including Stirring, Mom Egg Review, Wordgathering, Riggwelter, and Snapdragon. Her work can be found at AnnWallacePhD.com and on Twitter @annwlace409.