A Gurney for Me Published with The Feminine Collective December 2019 poetry Two nights ago I argued with a man tall as the ceiling, jagged teeth filthy and piercing, standing over my son intent on stealing his breath
racing his heart, charring his fevered brain. The man seeped into my blood while I fought him and clutched my gut crawling to the bathroom and back
the frozen tile singeing my skin pulling me down, whispering things. He opened his coat trenched, his death reeking, his heart frozen, and I cursed him.
Casually he hung himself by his feet over my son’s bed leaning towards hell he looked me straight in the eyes and dripped, “You’re excused.”
My son’s face pale, circles ashing his eyes, turned toward my touch, my body draped over his IV arm, blood backed up the tube his machine wailing, my skin flaming
when the nurse came with a gurney for me. I was fire, embers pouring into my son as I talked in tongues, “Leave my son alone, you bastard.”
I begged the nurse to unlash the man, banish him or for the man to take me in my son’s place and the hallway was fury rushing by me and me yelling
that the nurse had never seen a killing. She whispered but not to me, “It’s just a virus.” My arm was cold with a calm, soft and edgeless
when my own wailing machine took over and sent me away. I would rather have killed the man with my bare hands instead of just with these words.