Wave

It’s as if they were at a college football game, the dying.
When it’s their time, they rise from their seats, lift their arms,

and then collapse into oblivion. Wave after wave—
the announcer is becoming annoyed. 

I see my mother getting ready. I see my cousin. I see my aunt.
None of them especially likes football, but here they are,

ticket holders, fans for lack of a better word.
In Iowa City, the stadium sits like a church next to the hospital.

Children on the cancer ward watch the game from their beds.
Through the thick glass, they look like fish with wings.

My mother says, half in jest, “What’s a touchdown?”
I can barely hear her above the roar.

The dying do their wave, and the kids wave back.
How can you not force a smile?

Ralph James Savarese | Half-full
Contents | Mudlark No. 82 (2025)