I see an artist creating images she’s in the middle
Our mattress stuffed with cotton ticking we think
We will write my way out of here I nod my head
vigorously in this vain glorious warren called ICU. 

We catch sight of our umbilical cord floats in the dirt
six feet down, down, deep with dirt and sentiment
family posed above us, screened in sepia tones 
we cry we cry you and we until our tears are spent.

I see we are unzipping the mattress across the hall
We’re taking another look at what we’ve spilled down
The stain widens on the screen, we got blood red
We make a poster print Fort und Da type in black

anarchy. Mama why Is this not the end.
I nearly died. I can never finish what I start. 

Listen here, a Greek chorus throttles out Hospody pomiluj ny
my Catholic Physical Therapist tells me he is reading the Bible
I tell him to look out he may end up where Menno went.

Our nurse and a doctor bitch outside our curtain
Get a DNR next time, who knows who you’ll get 
coming back to you Mrs. poopy pants, likely
the oxygen shortage drains his brain, 
leaving nothing that matters to see or be. 





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