Last thing I need: a poet by my bed,
one finger on my pulse and the rest wrapped
round a pen and notepad, waiting for words
to morphine-drip / water-torture, painless
on pages blank as sheets bleached clean of blood.
Washed hand in a latex sheath cannot cool
my brow, nor can you rest my hardback head
on the disposable apron that shields
your lap, for you must record my wounds raw:
unpick stitches / steep your nib in ichor.
Hospital corners fold me flat: a knight
carved on a marble tomb, with lady-love
stiff by my side – oh, starch-breasted angel
with inverted watch, when does your shift end?
how long until you unwrap bandaged verse?
Comments
Beeme | September 28, 2011 - 21:21
You would hate to have me as your nurse then! I like this, the last stanza especially.
Beeme xx
WilkyBarKid | September 29, 2011 - 08:01
Hi Katie,
It was your recent 'hospital' themed poems that made me think about the subject from another point of view. So thanks for the inspiration.
seannelson | September 30, 2011 - 02:38
thanks for sharing.