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TATEIAN WHEELS OF LIFE


Twenty Dora-band aids barely cover one of my scars across my chest.  It's my stomach this time. But one hour of reading James Tate makes my mouth curled upward, with an outward breath and smile. Though as morning ended, I thought, "My mood today is nowhere, I haven't been able to find it yet." 

Today, the corridor is filled with little children and blond mothers, plump nurses. I fixate on the water dripping down the side of an empty shampoo bottle resting on the shower chair, enough shampoo to last a lifetime vacation here at Malady Motel.  Toddler screams echo down the hallway from another ward where I pretend they are impervious to anxiety, and merely screaming because they know the mind plays tricks on us from time to time; they are screaming to warn me of the warden approaching for early lock down. 

One morning of no medication, to follow the tinkle of the lead llama's bell:  Can you cope, can you breathe?  Tell me how you are, can you cope with the job, can you cope with seeing me while you work?  Can you cope, can you breathe?  That's all they ask, god bless these doctors with nothing else to talk about.  Heaven forbid they read the news, at least the headlines, the front page, something for small talk.  

My fingers flash lightning, ice forms in my palms.  I need to breathe; I need to.  Breathe waves to wash over me. My mouth speaks thunder, and if I could stand, I would spin the wheel, see where it lands again.  If they were to leave my legs, I promise I'd return the blood I borrowed, leave it for another.  I rock and hum in hopes of a calm hush wash over me, white noise, to cover my ears like the sound of a fetus sleeping through a stethoscope, breathe through a straw, wheeze a song for tomorrow.

***

Februari 19, 2017

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