This leviathan

founders in a pool, leaving me

flayed with scars, its marks like teeth

and every memory a whalebone of disquiet.

The woman beside me

never stops talking

behind the curtain that separates us

and makes me think

life is a shredding thread

directed through the eye of a needle

by alar hands.

Her shrill words tear the stitches

across my abdomen. I try not to feel

not to die.

Beneath the wooden cross, faceless

mimes with repetitive movements

drown the speech

of emotionless devices.

The lush greenery outside my window

has withered to brittle branches

—pensive, unspeakable—

a voiceless archive of silent words

heard by those who have no visiting hours

though angels woke us often

glimmering in the corners of rooms.

The IV is a constant companion

and the clock beats every minute

to announce that as something comes

something else will go.

When I do, let me remember

how to surrender

this weight of sentience.