Cradling my face in her hands, the nurse
says, “You’re gray.” Every ten minutes I get
a dose but I push the button every

second. Spots on the curtain dance the
Samba. She climbs the stairs on the ceiling
before bugs crawl. My heart wakes up sweaty

and singing. I yank the nurse’s coat begging
to take the pillow out from under me while
I fingerpaint pain on my husband’s palm.


One comment

  1. Lynne Bolinger · August 24, 2009

    ah, my dear. Morphine has taken up residence in my medicine cabinet.


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