Sheila Hageman

His Death

At 2:15 I hear marcus koough has…expired
Like sour milk, past his date

At the security desk, the thin black man
Who chats looking down at his desk
When I validate my parking tickets
Through the years of births and deaths.
He asks me again, “What? Where?”
And I wonder if I’m saying the word wrong—morgue.
Like no one’s ever asked to go there before.
Has no one died At this hospital?
I have to sit and wait for pastoral care to take me
And for the morgue to prep his body.
A good-looking, young priest comes down the hallway, but he is not for me.
An Indian priest sits uncomfortably, turns on the TV.
There is a heavy man they have to move to get to Marc and there’s only one person
There, we’ll have to wait. And then the priest does not know how
to get there; we wander through the basement.

I am told to look through the window
A submarine hole, Marc looks underwater, his white face
Like a guppy poking through the sheet
Priest rattles through some prayers
I try to join Our Father but I cannot keep up.
 




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​Sheila Hageman is a multi-tasking mother of three. She received her MFA in Creative Writing from Hunter College, CUNY. She teaches Yoga, Creative Writing, Composition and Literature. She has been published in places like Salon, Conversely and Moxie.