For now, I can live face down,
pants unbuttoned, ass exposed,
nurses and doctors scurrying about,
discussing the song on the radio,
how it reminds them of a tv show
now off the air, and I guess I can
even live through “Rate your pain
on a scale of 1-10” and
“What’s your date of birth?”
As the needle plunges into my spine,
I can live knowing my wings
are vestigial and no one believes
I can hear them flap when I lie like this
on a table or when I lie like this: I feel fine.
And I can live knowing I’ll leave
this world I’ve stumbled through,
often lost in something or someone.
I’ll leave like sherbet melting.
I’ll leave like a match fizzling out.
But I can’t bear the thought that the words
I’ve found to make light of the dark
won’t leave a mark more lasting
than a dent on a dead man’s pillow.
2024 Winning Submission for Penned: Poetry