Cheeks bruised and bloody,
dressed in hospital blues—
room 305 moans my name

below a veil of sheets. Cathartic
as the cleansing of bowels
she is audience of one to her own

Greek tragedy, after an ominous fall.
Mrs. Ninety-Three in the Women's
Ward requests company and I

am the niece who straightens
slippers, ties gowns and combs
bloodied hair in slow motion

aftershock. Pay no attention
to the boarder across the room
dazed in a chair, slowly dissolving.

We are all morning- snowflakes
denying liquefaction. I adjust
two black soles resting unknowingly

on damaged linoleum. The atmosphere
contrived in this infirmary,
brings the promise of permanence

with the scent of Clorox. One
small hand pulls me close,
rubs my face; frail fingers

melt against my skin.