Poetry
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The Body
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WaitingSlammed into a room called illness
I am a stranger Unfamiliar with the sharp Slick surfaces. But I am welcome: Pain, a florid forehead, despair Fling open the door. Wheeled past waiting rooms I glimpse bent shadows scanning their phones staring into the void Into the abyss Into the forces that swept them here, Stumbling toward cars and ER doors Dithering and unashamed A father's/wife's/brother's body in their arms, pliant as a sleeping child's. Weeks swallow days I’m enveloped in bed numb to the velvet cypress trees coating the windows Conjuring lovely, lonely music in my head, the violins of Venice, For in this half-life there is no music But muffled moans and gagging, medicines and acronyms Visitors mouthing Jesus loves me the clang of approaching gurneys. Here, cosseted by illness I can simply be. Later, I will turn off the night Tomorrow there may be light. Vertical Divider
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About Janice Fuhrman
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