is a fortress, you press a button
like some malevolent bacterium.
a click, a heavy sliding. Arterial corridors
an orderly with a trolley of folded white sheets.
Another nurse, a tiny ante-room.
Hygiene is vital: over your clothes, you pull
a white gown of tough matt paper, you tie the back
slip on a face-mask, elastic behind your ears —
bed, ventilator, ECG, all centred
on your wife, invaded by pneumonia.
Somehow you’ve reached the soul.
Nurses come and go, shifts start and end.
You sit, you walk, you stow the useless gown
and mask into a rubbish bin for burning.
The hospital exhales you. You drive, you sleep.
You press a button, name, door slides.
This morning the nurse doesn’t insist you tie
- John Upton
Correspondence:
Online responses are no longer available. Please refer to our instructions for authors page for more information.