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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