Poethead
(I don’t know how to spell) Meningioma
I float down icy corridors.
My face slips, blurs on skirting boards.
Plastic tiles suck my shoes.
In the GA Ward,
the flickering mouth of television
hisses at blankness.
An igloo of brains, snow blocks on pillows;
my eyes cast out to look for you.
The German lady asks me for water.
She’s never seen you here, she says.
She’s got a tumour, a hail stone in her head,
frozen on an x-ray in the hall.
In the waiting room, sweat sneaks out my armpits,
from behind bare knees, freezes like a smile.
Sun flaunts its limbs along the wall –
my body perves to lie with it, the mad yellow.
You do not come; I go out double-doors –
anti-bacterial soap melts in my hands.
Sun gropes my body back to skin
in the hospital… |
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