Still

Everyone here has a story,

and we discuss it all like old maids

at brunch. I haven’t actually felt the sun

on my skin in fourteen days now. I trace water droplets on foggy window panes as they race towards the bottom to be the first

to die.

My roommates from old money— Boca raised, and coming off another booze-hazed bender. This is her fourth time here

—and still, she uses our bathroom to vomit

dinner—no mind who cares. I watch

thick clouds turn into old silent films,

a tapestry of sky under a backlight

of moonlight. I miss the bloom

of my mother’s favorite—

Japanese Magnolia—alone,

outside the window of my childhood bedroom. It’s violet-blush—violent, against the rest of the winter-dead landscape. I’m five hundred miles away— getting drunk on old cartoons—liquid tv afternoons,

and I think:

I’m getting down with this disease—now.

I eat my Cheerios pre-portioned, from a Styrofoam bowl—raspy to alert

everyone when I take a bite

—with full-fat milk.

I try not to think about the physical action, spoon-to-mouth-thirty-two-times, before I’m allowed to stop—

I think about that fat-bellied iguana

I saw out the bay windows yesterday—when everyone else had visitors—

and I sat alone,

with focused gaze—

a full admirer of his strut across the plush

St. Augustine. He wasn’t even aware

he owned a body.

The nurse wakes the almost dead

first—every morning at five

with a courtesy-hard knock,

and demand: Vitals in five!

I join the rest of the herd who linger —strange ghosts in wait.

We line up, unnamed cattle—ready.

To be weighed and prodded

and pushed down the conveyor belt

of health,

—with buckets of chalk-tar Ensure to cushion the landing.

Fattened like pigs ready for slaughter

—I’m allowed outside, but tears are rolling down the window panes again, and the suns still missing.

My white hospital gown billows—

off-the-rack

and totally—

Sane.

I’m gone.