Anatomy 35
Concentration
eludes me.
Talk of cadavers and hyperplasia
steers me eerily away from the classroom
with its flourescent lights
and too deep seats.
Instead I am holding his hand,
grown pudgy after days of excess fluid,
signs of organ
failure.
He grips back,
assuredly.
But, really, he doesn't.
They have dimmed the lights.
Reverence?
I suppose.
They say it will be "soon."
Why does it have to be at all?
I have no interest in cadavers.
Or hyperplasia.
I do not like the wooden seats.
I only want to hold his hand.
I want him to grip me back.
posted by Tricia @ 7:57 PM
3 Comments:
This was so beautifully written. The poetic voicing of your pain is both aching and exquisite.
Thank you for continuing to share your singular writing talent.
This is gorgeous. Painful and ugly and true, but gorgeous. Dalton would have been proud.
I should comment more often - every post you write moves me in some way. I just wanted to say "thanks" and keep on writing.
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