Summer 1990 • Vol. XII No. 3 Poetry |

The Hospital Room

Charges ran through her arm and jumped Across the walls to the window Like lizards gliding with blooded vines Into the shade. The glass cracked in two, Parted-broken mercury under her tongue. This was a fever, a forged mind Complete with the rise of sulphur and The muted cry of the unborn. She would not Know anything now but the call to motherhood—A hawk flies over the desert, a thermal ease Of wings with no ground swell, arroyos, dry And sunken with air. She begs for a cup Of water, a drawn-out swallow over the snakes She's watching: the ink and cellophane of skin They'd leave behind. She lets her green eyes Pierce the greenest leaves under the lamp Beside her bed and lets the milk she spilt From her breasts Sustain the roses in their maternal dark.

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