Poetry / Marcia L. Hurlow

:: Her Hospice Nurse Calls  ::

	
                                                                                  Nature’s first green is gold, 
                                                                                  Her hardest hue to hold. 
                                                                                                                                —Robert Frost 
 
This wavering April weather won’t hold. 
Daybreak, I rush for the first train. 
Snow lines the road sides; it refrains 
from any promises of tree-top gold. 
Mother’s nurse called at 5 a.m., the light 
a trick on the horizon. This wick 
 
of color that drapes black limbs, a wick 
that will be snuffed before I hold 
my last return ticket, a glimmer of light  
that gives me hope. The northbound train 
I ride to her is full of dawn. It pours gold 
over nodding heads, a rhythmic refrain 
 
as the scenes change. A lyric’s refrain 
she sang to me as a child: I watched a wick 
pour wax into the saucer, the gold 
pooling around the candle, to hold 
it firmly, solid in the cold night. A train 
would whisper its distance as light 
 
failed. She soothed me, a trick of light 
that let her leave. She taught the refrain 
of breath and silence that still trains 
my sleep. Passing lights quiver, wick 
the worry from the trip. Memory holds 
her voice saying my name, her gold 
 
kitchen walls, white curtains against gold 
ripple like long petals, a flickering light 
that brings April breeze inside and holds 
its promise. I promise, my refrain 
as I gather my bags, let the wick 
of memory pull me off the train 
 
that pauses only a minute, a train 
whose clang will be a whisper, a gold 
candle for other children tonight, its wick 
black ash at dawn, the trick of light 
forgiven in dreams. Forgive me, a refrain 
I chant to her, as she leaves my hold. 

From the writer

:: Account ::

“Her Hos­pice Nurse Calls” col­lects mem­o­ries of car­ing for my moth­er, who suf­fered from demen­tia in her last years, in one fic­tion­al­ized final jour­ney forced to move for­ward by the train, just as her dis­ease forced me to find light in remem­brance. With the ses­ti­na form, I felt the same insis­tent movement.

Mar­cia L. Hurlow’s chap­book of poet­ry, Dog Physics, was pub­lished by Main Street Rag Pub­lish­ing, fall 2024.  Her newest full-length col­lec­tion, Prac­tice Rap­ture, was pub­lished in May 2025 by Pine Row Press. Her poems have recent­ly appeared or are forth­com­ing in Bal­ti­more Review, Chi­ron Review, After Hap­py Hours, Free State Review, Mud­fish, Puer­to Del Sol, Relief, and I‑70 Review, among oth­ers. She is co-edi­tor-in-chief of Kansas City Review.