An opaque silicone tube

punctures her belly.

Secured with gauze.

Connected to life

trickling down from an IV pole.

Food, medicine, hydration.

All that she needs.

My hand over hers,

I ask if she is comfortable.

Her brow furrows

above eyes squeezed tight.

“Water,” she begs.

Dry mouth and cracked lips.

I offer a wet sponge.

She grimaces.

I apologize, eyes downcast.

She cannot swallow.

I am doing everything I can.

I am doing absolutely

nothing.

We both breathe shallowly.

I look around the room

but hospital windows do not open.

Poets have said

they find room to breathe

in the clean, white space between stanzas.

I breathe deeply into these pages.

The frenzy inside dissipates

through the vast blank space.

I feel the relief

I so desperately want to give to her.

I long to bear more for her

than just

witness.

Is there a ventilator setting

that would give her

room to breathe?