Tag Archives: ragged breathing


Kevin Davis.jpg

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

His breathing
became ragged.

It was a rainy day.
At 6:00 p.m.
he passed away.

I was with him,
finally alone,
all afternoon.
I told him I was sorry
he had to endure
this ending.

A woman doctor
came up from
a different floor
to say to me
that when we die,
we choose the people
we want to be with.


Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry

In the Night

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

I wanted to gather you
up in my arms,
like a mother
gathers her young,
and bring you back
to New Mexico—
a place you once loved.

I wanted to take
you away
from the suffocating people
in that room
so I could listen,
to your ragged

A gift
in the night.

© copyright 2011 White Ermine Across Her Shoulders


Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry