Talitha Cumi

You, lying asleep in the hospital bed 

the riverbeds of adulthood softening upon your face 

looking for all the world like a little girl learning to braid her hair,

to ride a bike, to fall in love.

Your son, hovering by your side 

wrestling with angels on shifting sand, thirsty for miracles

looking for all the world like a boy pretending 

to be a man, not afraid.

Your heart, a fluttering dove whose wings beat 

along to the fleeting pulse by which this world keeps time;

the angels cry, “You do not have much left!” 

and the hourglass is draining.

Your spirit, softly escaping the hospital bed 

as your weeping family sees only what remains.

Someday it will be said of you, “She was only sleeping;”

You’ll wipe death from your eyes.

Talitha, Cumi. Little girl, arise.