Gravity
Sinking into the flower-print, down cover, the depression created by our weight on the soft mattress is unwilling to separate me from the words escaping her lips in quick, breathless movements. “You and I are just too… different,” she chokes as we both sink deeper into the growing pit, struggling to inhale the stale air bellow. Crashing into a subterranean pool of memory, she reminds me of the instances where I am too logical, too scientific, and too practical to accept the life that she has laid out for us. As she uses our confined supply of air to argue one last time that the earth was created in a cold, calculated, seven days, a grin crosses my face in the dark. “What’s so funny?” she breathes into my ear, struggling unsuccessfully to sit up straight. She definitely would not accept that physics might have a will of its own.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Sunday, January 24, 2010
CI 5410 Week 2 - Poem #1
Powerball
15. 32. 43. 44 -
46.
61.1 million dollars.
.1?
What does.1 even mean?
It means that all of our pain and worries are gone.
Ferraris, cigarette boats, and mansions.
Whatever we want.
That’s what it means.
As my heart begins to force the morphine through my already numb veins,
my faint pulse sighs a cold breath of relief;
for now, the marrow-spout at the base of my spine slowly ceases to throb.
With each slow heartbeat, the morphine attempts to convince my body that it will win;
for nearly a fraction of a second, I am able to forget the numbers that are the only honest voices I can trust.
The doctor whose face is usually stretched into a longer grimace by the morphine looks different today.
The motors of the hospital bed complete the work my broken body cannot,
placing me in a polite position to hear the results of this week’s marrow harvest.
He begins in his usual manner of gruffly clearing his throat and pointing at the beginning of my results with his index finger.
As his cold, analytical interpretation of my insides begins, I notice something that not even the morphine can obscure;
He looks at me while he reads my results.
His eyes don’t simply follow his moving finger.
“Your body is producing 1 X 1011 platelets.”
“Well within the normal range,” he clarifies as my radiated brain struggles to recall the word.
There are plenty of different numbers yet to fear.
It’s not time to hope yet.
“And, your body is producing about 10800 blood cells per liter of blood.”
“Well above the normal range,” he clarifies as he sharply taps his index finger on my lab report, the morphine inverting his grimace to some semblance of a grin.
As he continues to decode my fate,
the morphine slowly begins to retract its claws from my soul.
My few remaining hairs stand on end.
“What does all of this mean?” I whisper slowly.
The bed motors cannot work fast enough to get me closer to his voice.
15. 32. 43. 44 -
46.
61.1 million dollars.
.1?
What does.1 even mean?
It means that all of our pain and worries are gone.
Luxury cars, boats, and houses.
Ferraris, cigarette boats, and mansions.
That’s what it means.
15. 32. 43. 44 -
46.
61.1 million dollars.
.1?
What does.1 even mean?
It means that all of our pain and worries are gone.
Ferraris, cigarette boats, and mansions.
Whatever we want.
That’s what it means.
As my heart begins to force the morphine through my already numb veins,
my faint pulse sighs a cold breath of relief;
for now, the marrow-spout at the base of my spine slowly ceases to throb.
With each slow heartbeat, the morphine attempts to convince my body that it will win;
for nearly a fraction of a second, I am able to forget the numbers that are the only honest voices I can trust.
The doctor whose face is usually stretched into a longer grimace by the morphine looks different today.
The motors of the hospital bed complete the work my broken body cannot,
placing me in a polite position to hear the results of this week’s marrow harvest.
He begins in his usual manner of gruffly clearing his throat and pointing at the beginning of my results with his index finger.
As his cold, analytical interpretation of my insides begins, I notice something that not even the morphine can obscure;
He looks at me while he reads my results.
His eyes don’t simply follow his moving finger.
“Your body is producing 1 X 1011 platelets.”
“Well within the normal range,” he clarifies as my radiated brain struggles to recall the word.
There are plenty of different numbers yet to fear.
It’s not time to hope yet.
“And, your body is producing about 10800 blood cells per liter of blood.”
“Well above the normal range,” he clarifies as he sharply taps his index finger on my lab report, the morphine inverting his grimace to some semblance of a grin.
As he continues to decode my fate,
the morphine slowly begins to retract its claws from my soul.
My few remaining hairs stand on end.
“What does all of this mean?” I whisper slowly.
The bed motors cannot work fast enough to get me closer to his voice.
15. 32. 43. 44 -
46.
61.1 million dollars.
.1?
What does.1 even mean?
It means that all of our pain and worries are gone.
Luxury cars, boats, and houses.
Ferraris, cigarette boats, and mansions.
That’s what it means.
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