An elegant label for the body’s betrayal, a leaky dam, a loss of containment. Today’s trickles from once healed pin pricks foreshadowed by your liver’s failure to play its role in blood clotting.
Your eyes hold nimbus clouds compressed to charcoal, no flash of fear, no bolt of anger.
You answer the question my eyebrows ask. It’s alright, I’m ready. Anyone I can call? No, no one. Anything I can do? No well yes can you rub my feet?
I massage my promise into your skin with lotion.
The next day, a new patient occupies your room.
First appearing in Banister: Niagara Poetry Anthology Vol. 32 Oct. 2017
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