Rounds

Ha, distance. What a song. There’s no such 
Thing as space from one empty sea and another. 
Only clocks to wind between states of being
—Now, I am; once I was. For instance:

Saturdays at the hospital nowhere didn’t smell 
Like soap gone bad, my father led the way 
From room to room. We went to see the dying,
And I, tall as lavender, followed a man who looked like

My father in sick costume. By the foot of the bed, 
Tiles gray and dotted pink, yellow, black.
Ten tiles to the wall; twelve to the door, I waited
For my father’s hands to leave the bodies to themselves.

Saturdays: ashamed, cold. Souls nominal. Crazed until fleeing. 
Leaving by red car, I counted my body into place,
Always felt like something was missing. 
All the uniforms knew me by name.

Read more from Issue 23.1.