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1:
I am in the hospital.
The Bossy Nurse tells me
to start my own IV.
I have no idea what to do.
Clumsily, awkwardly,
I fumble, dropping, breaking something,
and blood starts gushing from a hose.
My blood is warm and sticky,
smells of chlorine and dead fish,
has the putrid stench
of watery decay;
makes me think of drowning
in a heated indoor pool.
The Bossy Nurse sneers,
»That's blood, isn't it!« I still don't know what to do.
2:
My sister is in town.
She comes to see me in the hospital,
invites me to go out with friends;
but when I rise to go with her,
a forest of IV lines restrain me.
I could lose more blood.
She is playing records on a sterio,
stuff from the sixties and seventies.
The songs follow each other
in smooth, uninterrupted flow.
I play another record,
a documentary of Mexico
narrated by my Dad.
I wonder how to get
more of these beautiful records ...
and if he's still making them? ...
Then I remember Dad is dead.
I ask my sister for an explanation,
but she is gone.
3:
a woman's moving in with me.
Nobody asked about this ...
I can hear her in the shower,
singing, humming to herself.
She comes to me,
cool, and damp,
smelling soapy and clean.
She tells me that she really loved
that record I was playing,
but I am wary of her.
a caretaker? ...
Sound track:
The Carpenters
We’ve Only Just Begun
Jaime
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