The End but not the Means
Bright blue veins stretch a map across her belly,
giving no indication what’s happening underground.
Her hand cups the full-moon, the cusp of new life;
the woman dreams as cells are dividing, beginning.
A sudden panic of white coats round a monitor,
two on the phone, the others inflated with facts.
The woman no longer exists, she’s just a vessel grown in size
with the same pale hand now gripping on for life.
A curtain cuts her clean in half, a foretaste of the scar.
Tears stream from her unseeing drug-fogged eyes.
Bright fluorescent lights and Technicolor red:
waterfalls, rivulets, forceps and a beck.
An oxygen mask hides her face, Cannulas cover her arms,
a latex glove wields a thread, pulls the gash taught and tight.
One hand holds a purple, glistening tiny fist, the other
strokes dark wet hair on hospital-issue white.
A score of cards displayed randomly on the shelf, the wall, the door.
Late morning sun pervades their bedroom: a yellow halo glow.
Three heads on the pillows leaning in to touch, all
unaware of this moment of calm: hand in hand in hand.