Sunday, April 18, 2010

NaPoWriMo 2010: 16 April

The Lazarus Sign

When our neighbour dies she crosses
her arms to her breast; her trembly fingers
butterfly around the sags of her neck –

"a reflex, no more," tells the nurse
cradling a slosh of warm plastic
bed pan. "You should not be here

to see it." We turn and check her purse
for family data, a chain of digits
to bridge the faults of lost dramas,

one last link for the forge as her hands
fall still and settle in the curl
of her collapsed chest, and cool.

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