Paul Rousseau
Charleston, South Carolina, United States

Poet’s statement

I am a hospice and palliative medicine physician and see suffering on a daily basis, suffering which is often callous and brutal. In addition, I experienced suffering first hand with the death of my wife 3 years ago from the ugly ravages of scleroderma. I have used writing, particularly essays and poetry, as a way to help me heal and continue to confront the daily debris of terminal disease–writing has brought me comfort, solace, and an open heart.

Dawn of mourning

dedicated to Pamela Rousseau
I slept on a chair
Of metal and memories
Stained with the love and
Sorrow of many a family.
The clock motioned to my struggle:
I stood and her eyes
Closed like the final
Chapter in a book, a
Page turned after 52 years.
Then her heart rested
And stopped, a dark
Gesture in the rising
Of a white harvest moon.
It was silent—no longer the
Flailing of immortality or
The struggle of breath,
Her journey secured
Above the thickness of death.
I cried—they said
They’re sorry, the
Nurse and chaplain.
And I walked to the
Elevator, a swirling
Dawn of mourning
Floating like a heavy fog,
A shirt without a button, a
Shoe without laces.