Monday, September 25, 2006

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.

3 Comments:

Anonymous Anonymous said...

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.

3:34 PM  
Blogger amanda said...

This is gorgeous. Painful and ugly and true, but gorgeous. Dalton would have been proud.

7:12 PM  
Anonymous Kat said...

I should comment more often - every post you write moves me in some way. I just wanted to say "thanks" and keep on writing.

1:04 PM  

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