Friday, 12 April 2013

11. Everything

I did something,
and that counts for nothing more than chickens.
Or tulips.
That counts for nothing more than a tiled room with patterns all over the walls,
than a girl who is sitting and staring at her face in a mirror,
wondering how it got to be so round.
You count for more than me.
You can.
You start counting whenever I sit up and it is motivation enough to keep sitting up,
to stand,
to pull myself from this bed and start to think about the day.
My heart is twenty different hearts at once all standing on the starting block,
ass cocked to the air,
waiting for the bang of the gun.
I tell myself that it matters which heart is the fastest,
which one makes it to the line first,
which breast breaks the ribbons
—but it does not.
There is nothing wrong with hearts in tandem,
just like there is nothing wrong with placing hope on a flower unfurling,
even though the bud has been closed for seventeen weeks,
even though the hospital room is wipe-clean antiseptic smell.
There's nothing wrong with antiseptic,
because infection is the dusty mother elephant who will stick around forever,
until her baby dies.
There is nothing wrong.

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