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There it was, mired in syringes & styrofoam left by the homeless under an old, hunchbacked oak. Death in the fog, all silver & grisaille as it wreathes & muffles children in the park. I saw it in the needle, deep in the back of his hand. My love’s. Fentanyl dripping no pain no pain no in his vein. Death in the still-life the ward’s window reflected: an old woman bent over her husband, her hand on his heart. It faced us, there — at the foot of the bed — patient, nonchalant, whistling softly through its teeth.
“On my Walk to the Hospital, Death” from These Many Rooms copyright 2019 by Laure-Anne Bosselaar appears here with permission of Four Way Books. All rights reserved.