confessions of the hospital bed

Ruptured joints 
Deep in black ink.
Flimsy fingers 
Marvel the meaning
Congested with 
Words that run 
Off the cherry tongue.
The mouth 
Of a girl is a briefcase 
Of secret documents 
Known only by
The doctor’s eye.
The protocol of
and emergency 
Response always is
Eleven hour wait,
Rotting of 
cathedral walls,
It is the sound
Of small bodies shutting
Beside me in leather chairs.
Shreds of soft 
Stiffened skin in spring.
I close my eyes and 
Allow them
to be sewed shut.
New and old 
The sounds I
have never known
Seem familiar like 
The hazy vision
Of my body hanging
From a noose.


3 thoughts on “confessions of the hospital bed”

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s