The scent of illness, stifling and spoiled / Masked by antiseptics. / Beeps and murmurs, / A ceaseless, mocking choir.
Blood flakes / fall onto the /blue, sterile field from / crimson-smeared green / light grips.
She suffers from bouts of amenorrhea. / She masticates as often as the day is black.
His breaths are heavy when we walk in. / Abdomen distended: / a large, perfect half-sphere…
There is no sound / like that of a heart breaking.
We work in a hospital / Faithfully / Like the tomato plant / Serving a garden community
Deeper than its captivating shape / lies a greater purpose.
5:37 a.m. in hospital scrubs / Just a few minutes with each patient.
It was pink / like the flowers he buys his wife. / It was not uniform.
The motor commands that choreograph speech are a privilege to possess, though I frequently find myself thinking / about silence, / and the reasons for which I may choose to leave it unbroken.
Jagged shards of lightning playfully dance across the horizon, / their shrieks of war struggling to keep up … / I hesitantly about-face and land my gaze upon his ethereal face.
On the first day of lecture, my dear, sweet professor / Had fallen ill with a case of the flu.