Poetry: Artificial Light



White light day-bed glow.
Blue sheets, antibacterial smell.
Sterile skin and your blood,
diseased and yellowing.
My jaw locks too often to utter
A word.

Your skin lacks life. The coughing
in the ward becomes a choir,
a cacophony of sound.
My mother shuts the

Door. Eighteen never looked so old,
Propped-up and thinning. Your skeletal frame
more machine than skin until your arm reveals a
bloodied bandage from a needle missing a vein.

Christmas spent here. Turkey sandwiches
and board games. In the hallway, I speak
with my parents about last year and
how much has changed. In the bathroom
I condemn

God.
I never believed in him even though
I was brought up on rites of passage
and confessing my sins.
I always thought him cruel and insane.

My grandfather takes a picture of you
to be blessed by the priest to ease the pain.
Instead, I read Dylan Thomas until
the words lose their meaning.

White light day bed-glow.

Your blood,

Diseased and  Yellowing.

My jaw locks too often to utter
a word.

Here, there are only bandages and
Tears on a blue paper cloth.