Poem: He asks for so little

'...turning medicines into magics'

and, by a bed of bleeps and signals

sticking oxygen tangled with detergent

     the boy,     he prays,

he will not require of a forsaking creator

that they bless her pharmaceuticals,

turning medicines into magics

he does not petition unresponsive stone

to lay mending fingers inside her flesh

surgeons transformed to sorcerers

    but still,    he prays,

for muscle to raise his hands to hers

to grant proximity to this reducing orbit

urging tall levers to stir wooden limbs

    upon their straining strings

    complaining in frayed compliance

all the while

a complaining metronome

beats out the hour

---

Comments

Please login to add a comment