New Poem : The Brink

The Brink

Fifteen years ago

I was on the brink of here

and nowhere.


From the floor

by the side of the bed,

my mother listened to the

sad music of the monitoring machines

as they sang about my weakness.


My heart whispered softly

in my chest.


And I didn’t eat.

And I didn’t drink.

And I wasn’t afraid.


My arms rested

under taut sheets, almond pale,

but for pebble sized bruises,

swollen from the bloodletting,

the blood that told them everything

they needed to know,

and nothing at all.


My mother lay on the hospital floor

listening to the quiet words of my pulse

turning over the idea that come sunrise

my name may rise and fall,

then rise and fall again.


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