In the past five years, you haven’t
stepped foot into a hospital. Unlike your best friend,
whose father had cancer, and unlike your grandmother,
who slipped and fell and broke her hip and
you were vacationing in Ecuador when all of this was happening,
unable to escape from the tropical rainforests to visit
the sick and dying.

Your friends tell you that you’re lucky,
that they’ve been to hospitals twelve times since their birth,
but at this point, anything would be more exciting than
coming home and falling asleep. Even your favorite TV show
can’t keep you awake anymore, and instead of being in surgery
or giving birth,
you curve your spine into a C shape while trying to finish homework
that will never truly be done.

But if you really cared about any of this, maybe you
would drive to the hospital, take a stroll down the maternity ward,
though suddenly you’d remember
that you don’t know how to drive
and maybe you’ll never get out of this place,
maybe this is all there will ever be.

He is an image of illness,
Feeding tube through his nose,
An IV his constant companion,
Every procedure altering his personality
His fragility terrifying, ghosts would envy his pasty complexion
His cells mutating, he is frustrated,
And I stand and watch...
And wish I could save him

there is a boy in a bed in a room. tubes are coming out of his arm, one out of his nose, and something is beeping too loud. he looks up at you under half-closed eyelids, and he smiles, and you love him. no fanfare, no celebration — just something taking root in the pit of your stomach and blooming, an unseen flower.

the boy is still in the bed, the beeping is still too loud, but you go and sit next to him and you can’t let go of his hand. he’s looking at you like he knows, like he’s always known — like he’s been loving you this whole time, just waiting for you to catch up.

and in a hospital, in the midst of chaos and disease, a beautiful thing slips quietly into the world. everything is still, and you can’t look away from his eyes.

Told at age 18 she's gonna go blind at 26
Wrote it down in her notebook
Tucked it away in a junk drawer
full of glass eyes
one for every outfit
pearl for the wedding
Ebony for Halloween
Nine to five on Saturday
She rents out the left socket to local businesses
sold that part of herself to make a quick buck.
Quickie
Quickly get his fix
sting
Won't feel him in the morning.
doesn't feel anything anymore
Epidural
Gave her spine away too
replaced it for a zipper to better access her marionette ribcage
thought she could cut out the strings
left a scar so big it needed more then buttons and thread
goes by cupcake
puts her frosting on every morning
has to taste sweet
boys like the red dye
dripped into batter
battered
almost without notice.
Nobody will notice
when it goes off
comes out
Red dye blood splotch
the epidural
won't feel anything
doesn't feel anything anymore
sting
a part she can't even feel
the wedding dress she still hasn't picked up
or canceled
paid for
By renting out space.
white with ebony lace
beautiful pearl jewelry
like glass eyes
drawers full of glass eyes
she plucked out so she didn't have to look
watch it grow
the hospital didn't reimburse her for this feeling
they didn't warn her about the ticking clock
screaming mothers
mirage houses with white picket fences
only barren desert wastelands
tumbleweeds taunt her in the worst of nightmares
Screaming churn crying soft
Cribs and cages
Marbles clinked as she pulled out the junk drawer
rolled past the frosting colored pistol
around a notebook
the notebook she wrote every picture she didn't want to see anymore down in.
the notebook she picked up first.