Laure-Anne Bosselaar: On My Walk to the Hospital, Death

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.