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I wrote this poem in my mother's hospital room.
You sleep With eyes open. You listen With eyes Deciphering The movement of lips. Braille hearing. You scream in whispers. My son is a stethoscope Of listening. Plastic vein for pulse. Tremor of tiny fingers That used to sew quilts. This is not how We thought it would be. We stand around your bed As though it were an altar. Brother lays at your feet Seeking absolution. The room is vinegar and hyssop. There are no prayers In this mausoleum. Perfunctory keepers Of serums and charts Tick us off Clockwise, Counting One more thing to do. Is this a job? The tying down Of need-to formulas. Sucking blood From arteries. Puncturing tendons and nerves As though you were a quilt. This room is a foreign language I do not want to learn, But must understand. Holding my breath, I watch you swim Looking for an exit Other than the sealed Window and open door. The room is a neon halo box Of oxygen-less air. Effort is an anti- Biotic in a bag Crying into Your sinews. A transfusion of dream And time will tell. Do we want to hear What it has to say? By Romaine Washington, May 2016 |
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