Isn’t It, Jim? by Bobbi Lurie

I gotta tell you, Jim, I’m so used to people leaving: I’m prepared for you to leave. I don’t care, Jim. Not in a personal sense. I’ve lost my sense of the personal. It’s the pain, Jim, and, in the end, after Jesus made sure someone would help his mother . . . well, he didn’t speak to people anymore. And neither will I, Jim. I’m speaking to God now, just like Jesus did. And when I ask, “Lord, do they know?” He tells me “yes,” and I feel it in my heart that I am dying, and they’re not helping me, and they want to be forgiven, but they’ll only say it after I’m dead because if it’s when I’m still alive, they may have to inconvenience themselves, face an emotion or a fear, Jim.

Isn’t it clear, Jim? 

© Bobbi Lurie 

Bobbi Lurie’s fourth poetry collection, “the morphine poems,” is forthcoming from Otoliths. She is the author of three other poetry collections: Grief Suite, The Book I Never Read, and Letter from the Lawn.

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