everything is strange. The room is cast in
shadow, for the blinds are drawn. Someone has
turned out the lights. Everything is sterile,
the white sheets, the intravenous fluids,
the complicated machinery made
of stainless steel. Even the tiles beneath
your feet lack contamination, you as-
sume. But what commands your attention is
the rhythmic sound of his breathing, which is
not real. A tube is taped to the base of
his neck, slightly above where the bullet
went in and stayed. When he awakes, he will
not be able to dry his own eyes. He
won’t even be able to say your name.
-Nettie Farris
Nettie. To be connected this way is both a weight and a gift. Your poem makes the best of a very deep challenge.
It was a difficult poem, Rae. Took me over 30 years to write it. Thanks!
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