Читать книгу Second Bloom - Anya Krugovoy Silver - Страница 14

Today, when I could be writing,

I sit waiting for a nurse to access me

(that is, puncture me with a needle).

I cannot work because of the talk,

the cold room, the television’s jabber.

The microwave smells of grease and burn.

I want words, but my mind stalls.

Too much blabbering, too many bells.

Staring into the IV’s neutral blue gaze,

I search for an apt metaphor for poetry:

my burning eye, my bride, my thread.

I’m not sure whether I’ve given up

on words, or whether they’ve deserted me.

I’m in the sea, there’s no comfort

in the tides, my spit tastes of saline.