Hospital Bed
Nov 12 2008


All skin and bones
barely floats.
The ribs
visible.
The sharps jabs
of elbows, shoulders.
And the pale flesh
underwater,
reminding me how fish
float belly-up.

The joints are stiff.
The tongue
can barely give away its secrets.
And the hands
shaking like shivering birds.

And the eyes
still furious,
glaring out.

I gently bathe this body
which I have known all my married life,
with warm water
a soft absorbent sponge.
Then lift it up
bird-like, frail
surprisingly light.
A thick towel
to blot it dry,
because the thin skin
tears like paper.

And lay it back in our bedroom
— the head, slightly raised;
the sheets, soft flannel;
turned to one side,
then the other.
And once more, I wonder
how a hospital bed, with the rails pulled-up
seems too big for this room,
too small for lovers.