The Death Doula

Villanelle

Sundays, she speaks to sense the days still blessed

She turns, she aches, her moves are always frail

Fridays, she weeps for days until she rests 


At times, I praise her ears with my jest

But the morose and fears do leave her pale

Sundays, she speaks to sense the days still blessed


I raised many ideas about chess

In hopes of distracting her mind from jail

Fridays, she weeps for days until she rests 


Naturally, she began to protest

For her death, she believes that I will fail

Sundays, she speaks to sense the days still blessed


As the days near, I search for her best dress

Family gone, they hate that she's female

Fridays, she weeps for days until she rests 


I hope that her transition had no stress

I held on until her final exhale

Sundays, she spoke to sense the days still blessed

Fridays, she wept for days until she went