Dear Leland
Middle of the night, he starts to roar.
She’s out of her bed, runs to his, she’s
crying
out his name. Fiona comes in, lights
his lamp. Dear face distorted, red. The
doorway
fills with servants dressed like
ghosts, dear Lord,
like angels come to—No. Please, Patrick,
drive
the carriage into town. Say he’s alive
but—grappling with—death. She’s on the floor,
she’s on her knees beside his bed, her
hands
take his. The roar becomes a whimper,
worse,
the carriage cursed, a pumpkin, God,
a—hearse,
and her a widow, childless. She lands
across him in a heap, undone. Her first—
her first and only one. Dear
Leland. Father. Son.
Kate Adams