The Wave

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The hospital gown they gave me

is the same one with clouds

my mother and friend once wore,

a hand me down filled

with the aura of grief and hope,

of time and death.

 

My name and date of birth

are the only thing the nurses ask

as I am led to the mold

in a treatment room

filled with a halogen haze

and an all encompassing white-

almost a verisimilitude of heaven-

pulled and pushed to the mean

that is marked in black on my body,

strapped in and slid to the center.

 

The  mechanical eye

revolves around me three times,

a trinity of hope, despair, life,

as I listen to bagpipes humming around,

the brightness forcing my eyes closed,

the wave tingling as it passes underneath.

 

I am connected to the past

by the fear of death,

separated through

the hope of cure,

knowing that I won’t

die in the gown of my mother

or with a four inch hole on my back

like my friend.

 

The eye whirls slowly around

one more time, then stops,

barely ten minutes passing

in an eternity of thoughts.

 

The nurses offer me curved arms

that lift me up, allow me

to swing my legs over

and touch the floor,

my backside exposed,

as I raise myself up

and walk away, death dates

of loved ones haunting my brain,

seeing only the ashes of clouds

of myself and others around me.

 

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