Nancy L. Meek

FATAL WOUNDS… DESPERATE MEASURES

Tending him, I promised him eternity…
“Shhhhhh… now. You’re not going to die.”
But fatal wounds he could not see
staring back at me screamed otherwise.

Holding him, I endured his frantic pleas…
“Medic!”… “It hurts!”… “Oh, God!”
Searching, I plucked lies from the breeze,
not trained for this part of the job.

Scolding him, I turned my throbbing head
so he could not see my eyes… my fear
that soon he’d be like the others, dead;
so, I made up more lies… to keep him near.

Loving him, I would have told him anything
to keep his one good hand clutching my arm,
keep him from leaving… from feeling death’s sting,
his eyes looking through me, his blood still warm.