Death Workshop

We speak of what we want
in our next life, the lacks in this one.
More adventurous, one says. More kind.
I say, I wish I’d spoken up more.
We draw line charts
of our fulfillment over time.
Then she says close your eyes,
picture your own death.
We shuffle our folding chairs,
uncross our legs, depart.
I’m in a hospital bed,
body worn thin as an old flannel.
Faces gathered by the bed,
loved ones fogging the air
with their sorry breath, their need
to be of use. I can’t stand
the way they hold my hands.
There’s a dry hand
with too-long nails
that skritch on my skin like lizards.
Will my last thought
be of lizards?
I try to lean back
into the void, but—skritch—
pulls me back like a tether.
I’m trapped.
Can I rasp out with a dying breath
that they should let my hands go?
How awkward. I couldn’t.
Skritch. The hours tick by.
I can’t go. I can’t ask
them to stop. I can’t…
The facilitator calls us together.
We share: Traffic accidents,
cancer, young, old, sudden,
angry, bitter, loving, peaceful.
I speak about the hands,
how I hated the feeling
but it brought them comfort
so I said nothing. The facilitator nods,
praises my compassion. Have you considered
becoming a chaplain?
I want her to say, It’s your death,
you could have asked
for what you wanted.