Mary points to a fellow patient 
in the nursing home and says, 
“She's always crying.” The woman 
is weeping bitterly. 
I'm shocked because there's no hint 
of compassion in Mary’s face. 
The callousness of the old, I think. 
But then I realize that’s not it, 
Mary, deaf and in a wheelchair, 
claims no more sympathy for herself, 
accepts the world's indifference 
as the natural order of things, 
though her eyes still recognize kindness. 
Death won't let anyone off the hook, 
whether we rage or go gentle. 
Mary’s way is to let go, 
little by little, of anger and love,
the self’s constituents. She moves 
toward death the way a swimmer 
eases into freezing water:
ankles, knees, hips, 
shivering rib cage, collarbone.