تخطى إلى المحتوى

poem

Today even blood can kill, I can tell
through a bag marked BIOHAZARD. Doc says
my back is bad, recommends more foam
in the sole ("With these shoes you hardly
feel the earth"). Nothing’s touching, I notice
around the sterilized office: tray here, pads there,
swabs over some. Gloves between me
and my healer, paper between me
and the seat, latex between lovers, what’s it
coming to? Expanse’s expense is a distance
you can learn from any pre-packaged fork
in the hospital café, eating in our cultural
fashion, with middlemen, no fingers. Clean
utensils for hands who knows what’s on.

اترك تعليقاً

لن يتم نشر عنوان بريدك الإلكتروني. الحقول الإلزامية مشار إليها بـ *

هذا الموقع يستخدم Akismet للحدّ من التعليقات المزعجة والغير مرغوبة. تعرّف على كيفية معالجة بيانات تعليقك.