The unction cools my brow; the candle shines <br />and braids a line of sacramental brede; <br />the priest half-chants the text, and makes the signs, <br />jogging my mind with the redemptive creed <br />I learned to lisp in church. A night-shift nurse <br />shows up with rosary beads and borrowed shawl: <br />I squeeze my morphine pump; the pain is worse. <br />A gurney clatters down the empty hall. <br /> <br />I wonder what my blur of meaning meant <br />to warrant such precautionary flush; <br />I wonder why the candle's Sunday scent <br />expands and cloys the sterile room. A hush <br />folds up all sound; the candle snuffs its flame: <br />a wisp absconds with my stowaway name.<br /><br />William F Dougherty<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/candle-power/
