the lines around you, which define you, have thinned to a silken web and you’ve heard that silk could save the world what with its toughness and economy of space and what you do not remember somehow resides here in this room where you’ve been taken, your swollen legs are red-angry like a sky in storm at dusk with silver-coated bandages over their weeping and you can feel but can’t see the broken horizon-lines that puncture the peaceful coast of your neck and folds of skin hang down and then retreat with the days, with the meds they give you, and your hands are skinny for all that, veins popping over the bones, over the knobs of arthritis or gout (they don’t know which), and in sleep you raise your head on the inhale as if to make room in your busy chest for air and your chin falls down when you’re empty and the floor is where you were found a few days ago, taken by a fast shock which sent you not to your knees but flat onto your back, your heart so slow, your face so swollen that for more than a few seconds she thought you were dead

Elizabeth Reeder

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