The Hospital Bed

This hospital bed
told me secrets
about grateful
I did not have
before I climbed
aboard its tomb
like a corpse
stuck in the
trunk of a car.
My tongue
works better
after the blood
has time to soak in--
sealing wax
on an envelope
of flesh I didn't choose.

Toe-nails clipped.
An easy reach.
A simple task.
The network nuance
of knives changed
this fact.  Bending
was impossible.
So the moons just grew
and grew and grew.
Mahogany bones
now say "please"
and "thank you"
when they move.
Rising from a chair is
now a church pew
with a proper chill.

Janet Buck