Last Rights
       

Every vote counts unless you're dead, but what about
the dying, those with pulses, preferences, an absentee
ballot? What then, if they don't make it to Election Day?
Just last night you made me turn from your hospice bed,
pen in hand—No peeking, you said and, Mail this first
thing. A senator in Indiana is trying to change the voting
laws, to allow the dead one last right. Your veins were
flatter than the day before. Everything was sinking—
you; the hardwood; the plush, bedside chair bearing my
print. We need to get that man out of office, everything's
going to shit. Okay, I smiled, settle down. Kissed your
forehead, tucked you up like a child so tight I thought
your soul would be bound to your body, to your very bones.

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Copyright © 2019 Anastasia Stelse All rights reserved
from Cimarron Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission