March 10, 2015


My fingers tell me
there's strength in numbers,
a fist being just one
familiar structure
not described
in medical texts.
We're all invisible
on the embalmer's
table, where no one ever
stands a chance.
We live on
in memories of youth,
when we easily slept,
spent in one another's arms.
Now, we're defined by limits,
prescriptions awaiting
immediate pick-up,
doctors telling us
what to do,
until the day we cease
to function.
They say it all
on you.