For Peter Kjolsrud (February 29, 2000-September 16, 2010)
and Tovah Kjolsrud, who lost him
After the infection ravished his body, I curled myself
around him in the hospital bed. I couldn’t touch him
when he was on life support. I just held his small hand
while machines and tubes cleaned his blood
and helped him breathe. Powerless, holding
his appendage, unable to comfort, to take away
the pain, unable even to kiss his cheek or rub his back.
Between procedures, I heard him pray to Jesus
that he would die so the pain would stop. And days later,
he did. That’s when they removed the tubes,
the nodes, the oxygen mask, this apparatus, that failed
intervention. Only then could I hold my son.
Only then could I lie on the white sheet with him
kiss his cheek, and run my fingers through his hair,
patting his back with the hope that he’d gasp
and come back to life. Hope. Even when the doctors
assured me that he’d die, I had no doubt that they were
wrong. They don’t know my son, his tough skin,
Nothing can kill him—that perfect boy, armored angel.
The last conversation we had, I told him
that the nice nurses were going to help him sleep.
They rolled his body on its side and cleaned his lumbar
with iodine. My youngest touched his lips
to his fingertip. He pointed at me, then fired a kiss.
Published by Blood and Thunder, Summer 2023