March30poem: Ouch

for Adam

The thorns in my crown are my own thoughts -
I can’t get off my bed, motivation crawled out,
Leaving her black hair behind to catch around my toes,
and I’m still locked up, she had the key.

If I shower, my own reflection
denies who I knew I amiswas - my hair’s too dark, I’ve been inside too long -

My skin's transparent: a network of cyan brushstrokes
inturrupt the new bulbs of flesh, and interlaced, the artist left his
threads of cadmium, made from the crushed bodies of beetles, for the nurses
To tap, and it floods back into the tubes.

Blush-pink. The way the bedsheets are blushless white and bedsores
are hot-flashes for my hips and heels.

I don’t get out of bed.
If I must, they’ll wheel me and lie me down
elsewhere. Maybe, when they force me
out again to make room for the emergencies,
I’ll step out in front of a cab and fulfill
the requirements.



_r