I didn’t send word to my mother
that I was sick and hospitalized:
Why worry her?
No, that’s not it
Why give her the chance
to blame it all
on my decision to leave?
Better she go about her life
without knowing.
Why burden her concerns
with the truth?
The woman in the next bed died.
We talked a little.
I’ve been lying here
with a drip connected to my arm.
The nurse took it out
just as some men
removed the body.
Why burden the ones I love
with, that kind of detail?
I always thought I’d go first.
But I only felt bad.
She was bad.
Bad inside that is.
Outside, she spent all day
working on her smile.
I burst into tears mostly.
Tears for her.
Tears for me.
Mostly tears
for what I know
and the ones I love
do not.
And then the doctor tells me
I’ll be going home soon.
No, I’ll be returning
to my apartment.
There’s a difference.
Juanita Rey is a Dominican poet, US resident. Her work has been published in Mixed Mag, The Mantle, The Lincoln Review, Lion and Lilac amongst others.