Leslie Seldin
She travels swiftly by gurney and I follow close behind.
Before entering this place she makes me promise not to tell.
The space we appropriate keeps slipping away. In the land of hospital,
the words we speak are basic and spare: bathroom, nausea, bathroom, bathroom.
For breakfast, broth; for lunch, crackers; for dinner, wait & see.
Night descends.
There are call buttons with no one I know at the other end.
There's a softness to the hours and this constant thirst.
I watch over her as she sleeps, move when she moves.
Near her slippered feet, tiny blue lights blink like galaxies circling a void.
Leslie Seldin is a writer who lives in New York City.