The Annunciation of a Dying Woman Gabriel undresses my tongue a little more each night, folds my worn words into neat little squares, places each gently in the heart of a cedarwood chest he carries under his wing. Devils whisper dementia, but I know I go virgin tomorrow unsullied by tense, unbroken by words, save Father, Mother, and Son, kissing the voice of an angel who might be a holy ghost carrying me under his wing.
Mary Alice Dixon is a hospice volunteer who finds prayer in reading poetry to the dying. She is a Pushcart nominee whose work appears inGyroscope Review, Kakalak, Main Street Rag, moonShine review, Northern Appalachia Review, North Dakota Quarterly, Pinesong, three PSPP anthologies, and elsewhere. She lives in Charlotte, NC, frequently walking the Stations of the Cross.
Beautiful! I was a hospice volunteer until the pandemic hit. I can relate to this poem.
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Thank you for your generous hear and gracious words.
Hospice volunteers are a special tribe.
Mary Alice Dixon
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