The Moya View

Tag: deatn

  • The Port

    The port rests on my high right chest, a pink crater, a  cleanly folded linen shroud kissed with tears wheeled from operating room to recovery by melting folds of scrub blues with iodoform scents.   The fragrance of me is creased into a tucked blanket, monitors on my legs and arm caressing rhythmic, sounds dissolving…