Father begs God and Mother sobs outside the glass as
the doctors tear into your body and rip away your silky,
flawless skin. You spew the most gorgeous shade of crimson,
as they swivel your head toward me, mouth
streaked with black charcoal.
Eyes roll back into your head and I see silver-cool nothingness;
the synchronized acutely pitched beeps shift
into a shrill monotone coda. Mother bursts in, struck by the
absoluteness of the line on the monitor. Father falls to his knees and
crosses himself, in spaces parallel and perpendicular:
forehead/ sternum/ left/ right.
Beyond the glass, behind where Father prays, closed
captioning of the casualty room TV
reads, “threw a perfect game today.” My work here is done.