Through that wall, she sits in a lonely half-dark,
Creating herself in a pupa of blankets, tubes, and gauze.
She tells me that she wants me near, and
Through the wall, I feel her, tugging meekly at my soul.
But I can't. When I appear, she is instantly
My girl, not the perfect patient, recumbent
In her antiseptic splendor, willing
Her cells to salve her sores. My girl
Is not a patient. She idly casts her body toward me
Like a paper airplane, desirous of crash more than flight.
Her limbs, deadened by disuse, spring free
Suddenly, oblivious of the feeble stitches binding them together.
I see it in her eyes. Even as she sits there, watching me sustain her,
Wash wounds, she is quickened. Her flesh trembles against her frame,
Desperate to free her of that fractured figure. That look - so
Compelling, I fight myself as I leave, not to check if she's gotten loose.
Sometimes I hear her, down the hall, rustling sheets or taking a drink,
Organic taps that rumble in my blood.
They are my trophies, my tokens -- the sounds of my patient
In her native convalescence - safe in mild sorrow.
So I can't. I won't. Instead, I wonder, removed, if the next visit,
The one I have to make, will bring forth screams unimaginable,
Wails of terror, progress dissolving to scarlet-stung stains,
Or will it bring riotous energy, terrible joy, and scare me away again?
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POP!
11 years ago
2 comments:
The last two lines of the first stanza are really weak, but I've really struggled with that transition. Help?
I think you've got the right instinct to bring it around to a more positive note, but I think the problem is you've set it up as a "will it be this or will it be that" kind of question, so that feels kind of stale. I'd look for a bittersweet, concrete observation at the end, of course more sweeet than bitter - but you know, a heart tug with a little smile that's done with a single "here it is" kind of manner, less self-conscious than the statement of speculation. Wow, did that make any sense?
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