by Laura K. Patterson
Into my palm a call light to grip.
They suggest my only investment
sixty minutes,
blanket my body,
plug my ears,
cage my face,
walk away.
Silence.
I glide, rigid on my back
into a capsule, ivory, titanic.
Steady low hum
elicits domination,
taunts
claustrophobia,
unanswered questions,
unwanted answers.
Again, silence.
Two strips of light
nourish my vision
nothing else
I have to close my eyes.
Distant tapping,
teases hesitancy,
commands crescendo
tap, Tap, TAP
thump, Thump, THUMP
knock, Knock, KNOCK
pulsating metronomes
overlapping urgencies
suddenly
digital machine gun
solitary
assault of sound
kaleidoscope of mind
nothing else, am I dying?
think of something else
I can't swallow. what else?
Machine Gun.
Finally, silence.
"Are you doing OK?"
If they could look into my eyes
they'd know the answer
I don't
the magnets do.
The magnets do.
