into a viral musical phrase
behind an unpainted window,
the white light spreads, tossed
the nerves secured
become tender in cut
haunting, damned love.
an ushered white waiting
along marble linoleum, six&seven chairs…
single burn at the ceiling
spray of a passing. is, is not.
inescapable ey, waterlids, bid for anything, thing. freeze
to reel. mother, please speak for me
my fault. mine. not his.
he is here, the one who reads from
r i t u a l s.
hello, are we together right now?
spin spin my heart father
your arteries? can i take them for you?
the doctor and rib crack of electrical push: told this, told this…
dad: after: you pulled respiration from lungs…
flashwhiteflash streak, smudging who is this now, brother?
do not ask about the after.
my mother’s hands are up, are up against swollen features…
what does your face appear…
a year after his wife gone, alone to be woken
to a son’s tense, fraught at twoa.m.
dad son what can i?
the one who reads rituals stands
and leaves, will he read now?
will he read
for you, dad.
waiting in white momentum. mom. my fault. mine
missed the emergency room. in the car. in the passenger seat.
skull falls between the seats and eyes
white and and white and
opposite of the emergency, opposite
we at the pulling hard of doors and chains and
and where and masked man in truck
stilts words, pointing
behind the desk
she was the lady behind the desk
on the telephone
holding pause single finger
onto the ground, to be rolled onto gurney but too big, too big
his body yanked into wheel chair
and ushered in and ushered
eight minutes oxygen deprived, clear. i, not a widow yet