On second thought, this is a stanza from the poem “Her Long Illness” by Donald Hall.  This one has resonated with me the most so far. 


     He hovered beside Jane’s bed,

solicitous: “What can I do?”

     It must have been unbearable

while she suffered her private hurts

     to see his worried face

looming above her, always anxious to do

     something when there was

exactly nothing to do.  Inside him,

     some four-year-old

understood that if he was good — thoughtful,

     considerate, beyond

reproach, perfect — she would not leave him.

3 thoughts on “Poem

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