05-24-2020, 03:04 AM
Transplant Isolation
Carmen broods like tea brews,
Stewing through the elastic days.
When the nurses come she pretends to sleep,
Fearing small talk as dull as sparrows feathers.
Her mother wears plum lipstick and plastic shoes,
Still taking time to dress for church on zoom,
And daily updates with the neighbors.
Last night they lay awake in the dark
listening to their own breathing,
Carmen imagining a bee trapped in a jam jar,
pressing its wings to the side of the glass.
A black and yellow mime.
They both know one month in one room
Is too long. She whispers to her marrow
wake up
And she thinks she can hear her cells moving under her skin
like London in summer.
Unveiling the vertical blind like a secret,
she watches a tree behind the car park turn toward Autumn.
Carmen broods like tea brews, her days stretched out like elastic. When the nurses come into her room she shuts her eyes and pretends to be asleep, fearing small talk as dull as sparrows feathers. Her mother has an obnoxious voice and wears her smirk like an ill-fitting tie. Last night they lay awake in the dark, not speaking, listening to the weight of their own breathing. Carmen imagines her mother trapped in a jam jar, pressing her hands to the side of the glass like an enigmatic mime. Conversation as empty as puffed rice, they both know one month in one room is too long. She whispers to her marrow to wake up, kickstart its hard-drive. Sometimes when she shuts her eyes for long enough, she thinks she can hear her cells moving under her skin, the plasma generator humming like London in summer. On one particularly long and lonely night she stands by the window at dusk, gently moving the vertical blind like she's unveiling a secret. Behind the car park a tree is turning toward Autumn, and she watches a single leaf fall in slow motion, twisting and fluttering like a moth that has just emerged from its cocoon.
Carmen broods like tea brews,
Stewing through the elastic days.
When the nurses come she pretends to sleep,
Fearing small talk as dull as sparrows feathers.
Her mother wears plum lipstick and plastic shoes,
Still taking time to dress for church on zoom,
And daily updates with the neighbors.
Last night they lay awake in the dark
listening to their own breathing,
Carmen imagining a bee trapped in a jam jar,
pressing its wings to the side of the glass.
A black and yellow mime.
They both know one month in one room
Is too long. She whispers to her marrow
wake up
And she thinks she can hear her cells moving under her skin
like London in summer.
Unveiling the vertical blind like a secret,
she watches a tree behind the car park turn toward Autumn.
Carmen broods like tea brews, her days stretched out like elastic. When the nurses come into her room she shuts her eyes and pretends to be asleep, fearing small talk as dull as sparrows feathers. Her mother has an obnoxious voice and wears her smirk like an ill-fitting tie. Last night they lay awake in the dark, not speaking, listening to the weight of their own breathing. Carmen imagines her mother trapped in a jam jar, pressing her hands to the side of the glass like an enigmatic mime. Conversation as empty as puffed rice, they both know one month in one room is too long. She whispers to her marrow to wake up, kickstart its hard-drive. Sometimes when she shuts her eyes for long enough, she thinks she can hear her cells moving under her skin, the plasma generator humming like London in summer. On one particularly long and lonely night she stands by the window at dusk, gently moving the vertical blind like she's unveiling a secret. Behind the car park a tree is turning toward Autumn, and she watches a single leaf fall in slow motion, twisting and fluttering like a moth that has just emerged from its cocoon.