when the specialist arrived in his shiny white jacket the room stilled, a sterile still life colder than the air used to keep the bleating machinery needed to push red cells through my arteries, to gush antibiotics into my veins like city hydrants when summer swelters hot from the pavement, to keep tiny engines from shorts that would gum wires and tubes and send electric shocks down lifelines to the system--my system--and when he shook his head, his mouth a hyphen, the air grew colder yet and my heart heaved into a pulsing mass of valves and vessels, one last gasp before it puttered into a puddle of tissue necrotic and grey, of hope gone south with the geese
***
Prompt=communication between two people with no words said.
My attempt at a prose poem. Peace...
A successful attempt!
ReplyDeleteLoved this: "his mouth like a hyphen."
I caught myself shaping my mouth like that, just to see what it would feel/look like.