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POEM OF THE WEEK
I wear an oxygen moustache, hating the cold
creep of air into my lungs, but the nurse says
I must keep breathing. I watch the slow clock
of blood through the IV tube, my insides out,
on display , my 'fluid being', my 'wine of life' -
but why would I try to make a poem of this?
I'm nothing more than a few sheets clipped
to a board, my bodily functions monitored
in words that doctors register above my head.
There's no poetry in the hospital gown, worn
thin from the rub of skin, or the urine stench
or how a person dies, without elegy or dirge,
on the other side, just a curtain between us
By Tamar Yoseloff, from The Black Place
published by Seren