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Day 19

A SWELLING


Memories like a list

of objects I can picture⁠:


glass bricks, blankets,

heart-shaped shoes,

an IV drip and paper coverings⁠


I can remember:


telling her not to come

the doctor’s disagreement

a jolt of electricity down my spine

asking for water

being told no

the filled beds beyond

that makeshift room

the turn to prayer

the cold snow outside


There is a sadness in surviving,

even in the rejoice.

No greater solitude

than in that quiet bargaining,

that promise of acceptance⁠—

this life as this life⁠—

and the guilt of its repeated

breaking. I could never

really take this life

as is.

Even now.


Memories come like

almost forgotten items

on a careful list:


wrinkled book pages

long needles in my back,

bedpan, masks,

the blinds on the door,


and so much


off-white.




I will be taking this poem down to edit further at the end of April.



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