Hemorrhage

An elegant label for the body’s betrayal,
 a leaky dam, a loss of containment.
 Today’s trickles from once healed pin pricks 
 foreshadowed by your liver’s failure
 to play its role in blood clotting.
  
 Your eyes hold nimbus clouds compressed 
 to charcoal, no flash of fear, no bolt of anger.
  
 You answer the question 
 my eyebrows ask.
 It’s alright, I’m ready.
 Anyone I can call?
 No, no one.
 Anything I can do?
 No       well     yes        can you rub my feet?
  
 I massage my promise 
 into your skin with lotion.
  
 The next day, a new patient 
 occupies your room. 


First appearing in Banister: Niagara Poetry Anthology Vol. 32 Oct. 2017