Dust is the Only Secret by Hadara Bar-Nadav

Tender father. Feather your face. Fingers laced with June. This waiting room white as always. July. You were patient. August. Body of wilted springs. Part tissue. Part decay. Paralysis. September, and the months drip. Patience. Pain. Infinite contain. Patient between 3 AM and Tuesday. Between sponge bath and morphine. Between Warfarin and vomiting. Current, rubber, hiccup, vex. The body lit up, needled, electric. You dream, half-life, half-lit. Machines chirp metallic lullabies. A neon line blinks across a black screen. Pulse like a promise green and green until the heart stops, sleeps.

by Hadara Bar-Nadav

published in Pool