“You never know,” my brother said to us
at least a dozen times. “Folks everywhere
assert they’d die without a lot of fuss,
preferring end instead of endless care,
eschewing tubes and dreading loss of mind,
but something kicks in when they’re close and scared:
Survival instinct – then they leave behind
the terminal intentions once declared.”

I think he’s wrong. We’re neither beasts nor young.
Observing those I’ve known who died mature,
I see it was the incomplete who clung
to life, while those with self-esteem were more
apparently prepared to face the shade
consistent with insistences they made.