A Hospice of Crucifixion
by Philip C. Kolin
Philip Kolin is the University Distinguished Professor in the Department of English at the University of Southern Mississippi where he edits The Southern Quarterly. He is the author of seven collections of poetry, most recently Emmett Till in Different States: A Collection of Poems (Third World Press, 2015). The poem included in this issue was inspired by the author’s spiritual advisor of more than thirty years; Margie was a Benedictine nun who came out of the convent to raise a family. philip.kolin@usm.edu
A dirge of cool air flies across
the room as her bed lowers
into an open tomb. Lazarus
sits in a chair nearby
waiting for sundown.
It is the ninth hour.
They swab her mouth
with a damp sponge
but she refuses the myrrh
denying her body
what her soul has accepted--
a dry death.
Her veins erupt into welts
from IVs scourging
her arms, legs, stomach.
She was draped in a purple cloak.
They suction her to listen
for her last words but her tongue
speaks only in yellow gulps and gurgles.
A nurse records her vanishing
vitals. All the sentinels have left.
Who will count her bones?
Her family weeps spiced tears.
All her earthly belongings
fit into a zipped bag.
The hospital insists the mortuary
use the back elevator.
They line her coffin with linen sheets.
She dreams her wedding veil
has been torn in two.
The ancient gates open
and martyrs rejoice in her arrival
leading her to the Holy City.
Blessed is she, they sing,
who comes into the house of the Lord.
Philip Kolin is the University Distinguished Professor in the Department of English at the University of Southern Mississippi where he edits The Southern Quarterly. He is the author of seven collections of poetry, most recently Emmett Till in Different States: A Collection of Poems (Third World Press, 2015). The poem included in this issue was inspired by the author’s spiritual advisor of more than thirty years; Margie was a Benedictine nun who came out of the convent to raise a family. philip.kolin@usm.edu
A dirge of cool air flies across
the room as her bed lowers
into an open tomb. Lazarus
sits in a chair nearby
waiting for sundown.
It is the ninth hour.
They swab her mouth
with a damp sponge
but she refuses the myrrh
denying her body
what her soul has accepted--
a dry death.
Her veins erupt into welts
from IVs scourging
her arms, legs, stomach.
She was draped in a purple cloak.
They suction her to listen
for her last words but her tongue
speaks only in yellow gulps and gurgles.
A nurse records her vanishing
vitals. All the sentinels have left.
Who will count her bones?
Her family weeps spiced tears.
All her earthly belongings
fit into a zipped bag.
The hospital insists the mortuary
use the back elevator.
They line her coffin with linen sheets.
She dreams her wedding veil
has been torn in two.
The ancient gates open
and martyrs rejoice in her arrival
leading her to the Holy City.
Blessed is she, they sing,
who comes into the house of the Lord.
