in your hands a blue bag
you ***** into it on the austere
white sheets—
wearing a band of flowers
spelling out your name
around your wrist, i
watch your aching body
thrashing
and the IV lines like
thin tentacles as you
heave and heave. the doctors
try 7 drugs. none work.
you keep turning inside out.
i
i know
i can’t do anything
if neither medicine nor god
can stop your pain -
how could i? what miracle
can i possibly mold that outstrips
creation?