The Culling

The Culling

It would be any day now. She was weeks
Beyond the age the government had set
For the culling. How sad the birthday was.
Eight candles, one for each decade, and cake
Nobody had the appetite to eat.
Stupid cone-shaped hats, the elastic string
Cutting into her neck. Then the goodbyes,
Saying they’d see her soon. Lies. She’d watched them
Climb into the cars as if grateful that
It was over. But she couldn’t blame them.
They had their own lives to get back to.
She’d thought for sure she would be dead by now.
She’d watched the gurneys being wheeled past,
The range of the snow-white sheet with its peaks
Of nose and feet. She’d begun to wonder
If they’d forgotten her, but that would be
Inefficient, and these people were nothing 
If not efficient. So she just carried on
With as much dignity as she could muster,
Dressing for the dinner the handsome aid
Served her on a tray, refusing his offer 
To turn on the TV, though it was, in a way,
Always on, playing the gray film of her
Life, a film that would end when she did.
Then the little paper cup of pills.
Cruel, keeping her alive so they could kill her. 
Did he really think she didn’t notice 
That tonight there was an extra one? 
Did he really think she didn’t notice
That for the first time he wouldn’t meet her eyes?