The Cat in the Hospital Room

The cat's tail swished to the beat of the heart monitor. It moved like a pendulum on Prozac. Meanwhile the beat on the monitor moved rigidly, like an iceberg melting. Rather than watch the monitor, the cat's gaze focused on the face before him. He perched himself on the man's belly, so he could feel its rise and fall. Each movement of the man seemed more forced with each tick of the clock.

That ticking continued for hours, but few of the hospital staff came in, and if they did, they didn't notice the cat. One nurse even leaned over the cat to replaced one of the IV bags. That feline creature didn't purr. It didn't meow. The cat only swished his tail, idly, as if it waited for something. His ginger fur contrasted sharply with the blue sheets, but the nurses and CNAs acted as if he belonged to the decor. He didn't take notice of the machine, nor the IVs, nor the breathing machine nor the feeding tube.

More hours past, and the belly ceased to rise and fall. The cat stretched, and stood up, before walking toward the patient's chest. He circled, and lied down again, with his head pillowed against the man's heart. From the distance the cat would seem to sleep, but an up-close view would show his open eyes. His ear listened for the familiar beat, which grew softer and slower with each tick of the clock.

No visitors came to see the old man. One nurse remarked that his friends and family had long since moved on. This man had lived in a nearby nursing home for the past few years, and generally kept to himself.  He read the local newspaper every day in the morning. After lunch he would play a game of chess without a word. No one at the nursing home remembered what his voice sounded like, for no one had heard him speak since his first day there. When this man fell ill, the nursing home staff only knew because his chess opponent had reported him missing.

The doctor knew his time would be soon, but he could make it sooner if the man were able to ask for it. No one in the nursing home knew if he had a living will.  While the man had an address book, it only had one entry, with a first name alone. It read: Mack. One nurse, while going through his effects, found a smudged paw print below the name.

Then the time came for the old man. With a feeble hand he caressed the cat, and the cat purred for the first time that lonely afternoon. His hand scratched Mack behind the ears, and he smiled when Mack purred louder.

"It's time for me to go, isn't it Macky?"

The cat continued to purr, watching the pulse in the man's throat.

"I suppose it is. Take me home, Macky. Please." His voice died away, and the hand sank to his side. Beat by beat his pulse sank into his throat until Mack couldn't see it anymore. The monitor flat-lined, and the man's skin fell still. Waxy coating covered the skin as it lost its warm color.

Mack sniffed, shaking his head to rid his nostrils of the odor. He walked up the body's chest, and grabbed a chain from the neck with his teeth. The chain snapped right off, a marble-sized orb dangling on the end.  With a drop and a leap, Mack landed on the window sill without looking back. A second later a doctor came in, and found a room empty save for all the instruments and a body.

Inspiration vs. Inception

You know why I'm sad?

I'm sad because I haven't forgotten

how to take the elevator down to level 18,

to  face my fear every chance I get,

to talk to her while she sharpens knives.

Meanwhile I have a close friend close by,

to help my shoot

my fear and guilt and shame and anger and regret before

she stabs me in the heart.

My friend, before she leaves,

is there to tell me to go back,

to wake up,

to move on.

Wishing well and not so well

Once I wished you were gone,

So I could write.

And now you are gone

And the floors echo

where your feet once fell,

Slow and groaning

"You got your wish.

You got your wish."

Four Corners

The four of them sat in a lopsided square of chairs. The rest of the chairs were stacked in a corner of the classroom, and the tables were pushed to one side. Sally avoided eye contact, frequently fiddling with a corner of her skirt. John tapped a pencil on his knee, looking at the floor, sighing every once in a while. Rose looked at the door, wishing it wasn't locked. Thomas couldn't stop staring at the gun sitting on the nearest table.

"Should we draw straws?" John began, his words slushing through the thick silence like slick boots in a swamp.

"Do we even have any straws?" Sally spat, narrowing her eyes.

Thomas' eyes finally shifted to the circle. "We could flip a coin. Or play rock, paper, scissors."

Rose bit her lip, not removing her eyes from the exit. "I don't think we should decide this by chance." She blurted out the words as she dragged a foot from the back legs of her chair to the front.

"Then how should we decide?" Thomas glanced at her.

"By who's oldest." Rose glanced between them.

"What? No. Then It'll be me." John said with wide eyes.

"You sure?" Sally asked.

"I'm 38. You?"

Sally huffed. "A woman never reveals her age."

Thomas rolled his eyes. "Look, we have to decide tonight. I say we should do it by who has the least to lose."

John cleared his throat. "I have a wife, three kids, a house, and a dog."

"I have a classroom full of children and a very important trip next month." Sally shifted in her chair, crossing one knee over the other and adjusting her skirt.

"I just have my daughter and my credit card debt." Thomas swallowed, running a head through his hair. "We don't even have health insurance." Then Rose realized how worn his overalls looked in the moonlight in the windows.

The three of them glanced at Rose, who had receded farther from the square with each beat. Sally coughed, giving Rose a pointed look. "I have a new job." Rose mumbled, her eyes not rising from the bottom of her sockets.

"Oh, well, we don't have to decide by that." John said.

"Right." Sally replied, chewing her lip.

Thomas just watched Rose, his eyes narrowing. They weren't any closer to deciding, except him. It would be so much easier just to shoot her. She didn't have as much to lose as the rest of them. He could just imagine it.

~~

Picking up the gun, Thomas looked her in the eye. He looked passed the gray in her eyes, to  the chilling fear behind her pupils. Thomas would make her feel better. He would wipe away her dread. She wouldn't even feel it. Just click off the safety, pull the trigger, and hold the gun as the blast kicked him back.

What would they find on her when it was said and done? Would they even hesitate, or would they flee out the door? What would be in her wallet? Did she have any family? A brother, or parents who disowned her?

~~

Thomas stood up and picked up  the gun. It felt cold in his hands.

A Marriage to the Rope Maker's Daughter

Her father held her hand very delicately, as if he feared her fingers shattering into a million pieces. She worried that her little hands would press his gnarled fingers too hard and they would dissolve. Even then his hands rattled.

" 'm not 'fraid, sweetie. Neither sh'd ye be." He looked down at her with warm, if not worried eyes.

" 'm not afraid, Daddy. But where 're you goin'?"

Her father sighed, rubbing his leathered face tiredly as he searched the wall behind her for an answer. Finally, he smiled as his eyes found hers. "At dawn 'm gonna marry the rope maker's daughter"

She beamed, nearly jumping from the floor. "I've always want'd a mum." "What she like?"

He chewed his lip a little. "She's quite frightening, just like her father."

"Can I meet her?" She sat up a little, touching his face.

Her father shook his head sadly. "Not yet. I really wish I c'd bring ye to the weddin', but it's too scary fer little girls."

"But Daddy, 'm brave."

"Promise me ye won' go. Promise." His eyes searched hers this time, as if he were looking for an anchor.

_____________________________

Like many promises a little girl makes, she broke this one. She hardly slept that night, pacing around her room, eyeing the fort impatiently. Knowing her father, he would try to have an extravagant wedding. Usually that would mean renting the Governor's courtyard, but some reason her father and the governor didn't get along so well. He would have to have it at the fort, where the whole town could see.

She raced outside as the sun reluctantly rose over the eastern coast. Before that yellow coin finished rising over the water, the girl was hiding in the skirts of some woman in the crowd around the platform. She had a hard time spotting him, but she eventually found her father on top of the platform with a rope around his neck. The girl couldn't find a daughter anywhere on the platform, only the scary man in the black hood, and some sort of judge. Even the words of the man on the far end of the platform were hard to hear over the crowd's murmuring.

Yet the sound of trapdoor falling down cut right through.

To Mrs. McGinnis

You look like a sponge squeezed.
That breath you carry around every
other moment probably weighs
a lifetime more than before.
I know if you could,
You would shoot light straight into your father's heart,
or create a sunbeam that would take your children straight to their grandfather.

You might feel like you're fighting a battle
Against a enemy you're not sure of.
Heaven is the highest victory,
a tower higher than the clouds.
I wish I could say you could climb up
such a tall ladder with your armor on,
your shield and sword in hand,
but they'll only weigh you down.

A Drive Down Kuebler Boulevard

I see flowers and a cross on the side of the road.
Why isn't there a flower and a cross my mom's hospital room?
Why aren't there flowers streaming
down the halls,
down the walls,
for the people the doctors couldn't save,
who they wouldn't save?

Death of the Author

A team of investigators arrived at the scene, Polaroid cameras and airtight evidence baglets in hand. They split up, two men on the left and the woman on the right. One man snapped pictures, leaning closely over the body.

The coroner poked one cold arm. "She's in near-perfect condition."

"Like the court will care about that." The man with the camera rolled his eyes.

"Hey now, she's of some worth." The woman carefully gathered samples with gloves fitted tightly around her hands.

"Ha, they only care what they can get out of her. She's not really even evidence. It's the samples and pictures they want." The camera man leaned over the body's head, snapping close ups of the untouched face.

"What killed her?" The woman paused to glance at the coroner.

"Oh, well, it looks like she served her purpose. The publisher had no further use of her, so they must have poisoned her water supply. But that's just a preliminary guess."

"They do that?" The woman failed to resume, her jaw dropping an inch. "That's...a lot of dead authors."

"Oh, she'll wake up sooner or later. The jury will need a book out of her." The camera man stood up, finished with gathering pictures.

Death

It began as an accident. The Mongol invaders had planned to bring death to the Arabs, but they did not plan to cast it among their own armies. Death came anyway, and took nearly all of them. However, Death did not win that battle.

Instead the army invited Death to join their armory, and they catapulted him from one camp to the other. First, fortresses fell in Deaths wake, their guards succumbing to black sores, pale skin, and fever. Then ships came and carried Death as a stowaway, as some say. Others says the crew tried to take Death prisoner. Either way, Death sailed across the Black Sea and conquered Europe.

First Turkey fell, then Italy, then the Alps, then France, then Germany, and then Brittan. Death planned to push up into Poland and Russia, but he lost steam. Or, as some theorists say, he lost the motivation to continue. Other sources say he retired and abdicated his empire to a worthy opponent.

Louise Cornwall

Inspired by Spoon River Anthology
I lived on the outskirts of town,
Between the quarry and the river.
I lived in a one bedroom house,
Once I moved to Spoon River.
My bedroom had a twin bed.
My kitchen table had one placemat.
I lived in Spoon River twenty years,
Alone.

I worked on my garden,
With a ring on my left hand,
Playing along with the rumors
That I was the cause of my his absence.
I wasn’t.
She was.

The Story to End All Stories

We started up Humbug Crick early that day, our rigs and crummies growling before we were halfway up Butte Road. It was an old logging road; Ben never been on it before, and neither had Johnny. That didn't stop us, as we climbed out with our saws and our axes hanging from our shoulders. Our crew piled out behind, ripping and roaring to drown out the sounds of the woods. Johnny heard a hum, or maybe a buzz that seemed to come from the sun itself.

We worked all morning, only breaking for lunch by the rig. Pulling out our coffee, we heard the drone crescendo until it got in the way of our conversation. Chuck stood up first, and left his lunch behind. No flies went after it. Walking a little up a ways, Chuck stopped in front of a large rock.

"Hey guys! It's louder over 'ere!"

Eventually the rest of us made our way over there. Ben was the first to climb the rock to find whatever made that crazy noise. When he saw it he nearly fell off the back of the rock.

"What is it?" Johnny asked, scratching his arm.

Chuck stood up a little straighter and climbed down the other side. "I'm gonna find out."

The rest of us waited until we heard a loud squeal and the sound of human bones being sawed in half. We didn't wait to find out what did ended Chuck Reister. Ben thinks its a bear. Johnny thinks a cougar. Dan thought it was an alien, but no one listens to him anyway.

Keepsake

I let your body go months ago,

and I let your soul fly to heaven like a dove,

but do you mind if I

carry a piece of your spirit around with me?

I'll keep it in my left pocket,

and take it out when I need your backbone,

I need your smile,

need your laughter.

A Green Flash

No one in my family has ever met Dad's father. Jade only has one picture of him, weathered, worn, and in black and white. It's a picture of when she first met him, in Burbank, California. They both worked at an aircraft factory in WWII. She was a Rosie the Riveter of sorts, and he was an aircraft engineer. Some sort of chronic illness, Grandma Jade would say, the government wouldn't dare put him in combat. He flew into her life like a storm at sea, and left just as quick. But he knew her long enough to father my dad.

Jade took his last name, as a sort of token, and took to wearing a ring he gave her on her left hand. She would never say if he married her, and we never found any wedding photos. Grandma didn't seem to mind, as she never sought out anyone else.

Grandma Jade never strayed too far from the coast. Sure, we could coax her away, closer to family, for a few years, but within a decade she'd be back by the ocean. She could get by in any coastal town, but she preferred ports, no matter what size. Jade even moved from Santa Monica, saying it was too expensive, but she just moved up the coast  town by town, until she found Coos Bay. Less crowded, she said.

She'd spend nearly day at the beach, or on the docks. We knew not to check her house when we came to visit. Instead we combed the coastline until we found her.Every so often we'd see her gaze at the waves longingly, as if she was looking for someone. Our visits usually ended up being sandy picnics, crabbing, fishing, but Jade never took us shopping at the tourist traps. "I'd never find anything worth paying for." She would say when asked.

Over the years the family visited less and less, until Grandma got sick in the spring. At first, we took turns, dropping by each weekend to check up on her, or if we could, we'd take days off work and school. Then summer hit, and Grandma Jade still hadn't healed. Even then she refused to go to the hospital. So I packed a suitcase and moved to her place for however long it took.

We spent nearly all our time at the beach, only going home at night. No matter how late it was, we could always find our way home. Long after everyone had turned off their lights and went to bed, her house always had one light on. I knew she had a window facing the water in her bedroom. The candle that sat on her window sill never went out. Fishermen would always joke that they could see the light from the ocean.

Then she got too sick to go outside. I did everything I could, from opening the windows to let the draft in, to bringing her seashells I found every morning at the shore. Grandma Jade would smile at me tiredly, then toy with the seashell as if she wanted something else.

It took three days of her favorite meal (salmon on mash potatoes) to get the truth out of her.

"I don't think I'm going to make it, hon' " Jade glanced up at me, as young as ever.

I helped her bring another bite to her lips."Oh, don't say that Grandma. You'll be fine. You're a toughie."

"I'm sorry hon.'" She chewed it thoughtfully, then glanced up at me, her eyes sparkling like streams in the sunlight. "You want to know a secret?"

"Sure." Wondering what on earth Grandma Jade had left to tell.

"Set that fork down and open that drawer next to you. Yeah, that one. The picture should be underneath all those scarves."

I pulled it and held up for both our eyes. It was the picture of Grandpa Jones, the only picture she had.

"Did you know Grandpa knew more than just planes?"

I set her plate aside. She never never had an appetite when she had a story to tell.

"He also liked ships. Big ones. Historic ones."

"You mean, sailing?"

Jade smiled, seeming younger already. "Yeah. He loved to go and rescue men lost at sea." She sighed wistfully.

"Like the coast guard?"

She frowned slightly, as if I was missing something important. "Sort of, except none of them ever wanted to come back. So they would join his crew."

"Wait, he was a captain?"

Jade smiled again, proud. "One of the best. No one could ever catch him."

"But he left you years ago, right? Soon after the war?"

She spoke softer, squeezing my hand weakly. "He came back once every ten years."

My eyes widened farther than the portholes in her kitchen. "Wait...Grandpa Jones is--"

Jade whispered fiercely, grinning. "Davy Jones." She thumbed my hand. "Just between us though, alright?"

I nodded. "So...you're going to meet him."

"Oh, I suppose I'll go and join his crew." She uttered softly.

"And you're not coming back." I swallowed.

"Just promise you'll bury me at sea."

"Of course, Grandma, of course."

Cassandra

There is an entire world between

knowing how to save her life,

and saving her life.

In that world there stands

white-washed doctors,

and mud-slung legislators,

and a computer god,

who judges without mercy.

Here, common sense is worth less

than two pennies,

but her minutes are worth more than gold.

I could buy diamonds with her lucid thoughts,

and rubies with her smiles.

Table Talk

In the end, she wasn't sure if her feet left the rooftop, or if she slipped. Rachel thought she might have flashbacks or see her life flash before her eyes, but she only thought about how quickly the pavement flew into her face. In the second before she lost consciousness, Rachel felt her legs buckle and shatter beneath the weight of her fall. She thought she felt her face hit the pavement.

Next thing she knew, Rachel was standing up and walking. She swallowed, wondering  why she didn't feel any pain, in fact, she didn't feel anything at all. Rachel had to look down to see that her feet touched the marble floor as they walked. Her heart would have skipped a beat, except she had noticed that it had stopped beating.

The hall yawned before her eyes, deep, with every surface covered in gray marble. It had no windows, no lamps, no fires, and no sunlight, but she could see down it just fine. At the end of the hall sat black iron doors, and the moment Rachel would have reached to push them open, they opened themselves. Beyond the doors a cavernous room loomed before her, making Rachel stop so abruptly, she rocked back on her heels.

A table stood in the center of the room, gray marble like everything else.  One black iron chair stood on each side, one empty, and one occupied. Rachel recognized that occupant immediately, and her skin covered itself with goosebumps. He beckoned her with a wave of his long black sleeve to the empty chair. Glancing back at the iron doors, she saw them close with a hollow echo. The chair seemed to be her only option. She sat down, looking at the table instead of trying to meet his eyes.

In the middle of the small table sat a game of chess, with each piece in its starting position. One half had carved marble, sleek and simple. The other half had iron, intricate and rich.  Underneath them, rested the chessboard, made of shimmering glass.

"Care for a game?" He whispered, his voice hoarse, but clear.

"I guess." Rachel answered, not really seeing any other option. She moved the pawn closest to her right.

He slid a knight to face her pawn. "Who are you?"

"Rachel Stevens." She studied the board, already having a bad feeling about her odds. How did it go? Win the game and get a second chance at life? Or would she only have a chance at a better afterlife? Who the heck knew all this stuff and bothered to tell the living? Rachel focused on the opposite side of her board, deciding to move one of her knights closer to the center. "I'm dead, aren't I?"

"Yes. Did you want to be?" He moved the same knight closer to hers.

She swallowed, moving her pawn again. "Yes."

He moved the knight away, and Rachel caught a glance of the bones beneath the sleeve. They matched the marble well. "Why?"

Rachel wondered how many times he'd heard this before. "I couldn't face my life anymore." She slid her rook right behind her pawn. It thudded lightly against the glass, hissing as she let go.

"Why did that make you kill yourself?" He slid a pawn right behind his knight.

She wished she had an idea of what he planned next. He seemed the type that could plan an infinite amount of moves ahead of time. After all, he seemed to have all the time in the world. "I was afraid." Rachel answered softly, moving her knight next to his.

His queen knocked out her pawn. "What a waste."

"You don't understand." She swallowed, moving her knight and taking out one of his pawns. "Check."

The room seemed to get warmer. He sat silently for a long time. "I wish you understood. Suicide is one of the most selfish and cruel acts one can commit, Rachel." He moved his king out of harm's way.

"I had to. I had no choice." She moved her knight again, taking out his rook.

"You always had a choice." He slid his bishop until it stood a square away from his knight. "You always did. Until now."

None of her options now seemed good.  Rachel swallowed, moving her pawn forward. "Then why did you offer me a game?"

He moved his queen back.  "I have my reasons."

"That's not answering my question." She slid another pawn forward, trying to free up her more powerful pieces.

"I don't have to answer your questions." He slid a pawn as well.

Rachel saw her chance, taking out his knight. "What if I win?"

"What if you do?" He mused, sliding a pawn behind his queen.

"I want answers." She moved her knight back, taking out another pawn. So far, she had more pieces than he did. Rachel wondering how long that would last.

Apparently not long. He immediately took out her knight with another pawn."That's all?"

"How much can I ask for?" She slid out a bishop, suddenly finding the need to end this quick.

"Indeed." He also moved a bishop.

"What are my options?" She moved her bishop again, as far as she could. "Check."

"You should have researched that before you killed yourself." He moved his king out of her path.

"Well, I'm asking now." She moved her bishop again, chasing him.

"I don't have to tell you." His king took out her bishop.

They were even, with four pieces each. Rachel moved her queen. "What if I asked nicely?"

He moved his. "Probably not."

She moved her remaining knight. "Have you ever told anyone?"

"Most of them already seem to know by this point." He moved his king away.

"I don't." She took out his queen, breathing a sigh of relief.

He moved a pawn, and the shadows beneath his hood seemed to darken. "That's unfortunate. To not know your stakes."

Rachel took out another pawn with her knight. "I guess. I can't change that now."

He moved one two spaces forward. "I suppose." Death sounded bored.

She took out a rook. "You don't know?"

"You're full of questions. No sob story?" He moved a knight in front of his king.

"You've probably already heard it." She moved her queen forward. If Rachel was lucky, she might have a chance now.

"Perhaps not." He moved his remaining bishop.

Rachel moved her queen to his end of the board. "I lost my job."

He moved his bishop directly in front of her king. "That sounds like a poor reason for suicide."

She took it out. "It was a really nice job. I had no savings."

He moved another pawn. "Nothing else?"

"I had no boyfriend. My family were already struggling to pay their own bills." She moved her queen. "Check."

He took out her queen. "So you made them pay for your funeral?"

"I had life insurance." She moved her rook. "Check."

He moved his king forward, bringing her rook within range. "How much?"

Rachel took out his knight. "Not enough." She sighed.

His bishop took out her knight. "Unfortunate."

"Yeah." She moved a pawn forward, running out of options fast. Rachel only had five pieces left.

He moved a pawn in line with his king. "So you're costing them a funeral and a loved one."

"What else was I supposed to do?" She moved her knight.

He moved a pawn, and gained back his queen. "See a therapist. Seek faith. Seek love."

"None of those seemed appetizing." She moved her knight again. "Check."

He took out her night with his bishop. "Better than death."

"Yeah." She sighed, moving a bishop. He was going to win.

"Always." He moved his queen in line with her king. "Check."

She moved her king out of the way. "You think so?"

"Always." He moved his queen with ease. "Check."

She moved her king back. "What if a person's life was hell?"

He pursued. "You know nothing of hell."

"You know nothing of living." She moved her king back.

"Don't I? I end lives every day." He took out one of two remaining pawns. Not that Rachel could have moved them anyway.

She moved her king closer to his. It was the only piece she could still move. "And what do they tell you?"

His followed. "They beg, usually."

She moved her king. "Creative."

"They're desperate." He took out her last pawn.

"They're dying." She moved her king back.

"They don't want to. " His king followed. "Check."

"I do." She moved her king back.

"Unfortunate." His bishop moved in line with her king. "Check."

Rachel moved it forward. "So what? Just another soul right?"

"Every soul has value." He moved his queen in front of hers. "Check mate."

Remember Me: By Lenore A. Pittock

When you look at me
all you see is a
slow, suffering, gray, stooped-shouldered
woman who can barely walk,
is short of breath,
and moves every step slowly one at a time.
_________
Remember who I was before,
laughing, running,
butterfly-chasing child who
danced in the sunshine for the pure joy of it,
through the daises,
measured each step for strength,
and found each day unable to contain
the energy that splashed.
_________
Now you see me no more
but remember me. I am once again
picking flowers,
laughing, running, chasing
butterflies, unable to contain
the pure joy and energy splashing
through me as I dance
in eternity's life with my
creator and savior of my life.

Ghosts

The hospital had one,

except it was the sort of ghost

that only followed my shadow

everywhere my feet fled.

to hotel at the beach, warmly lit--

and an Italian nursing home.

_______________

My mother's room had a different ghost,

one that clung to the chambers of my heart,

after creeping in through my nose and eyes.

It plagued my sight after I left the room,

filling it with mist, making my chest throb.

__________________

Twenty ghosts haunted the signatures

in her yearbook,

each curve connecting each letter

was a ley line into her world,

a world I wondered if I knew.

Eye witness report

Susan Wheeler died on the 21st of June. The warm breeze gave her away to the first passerby, a seventeen year-old man (or a boy, if one talked to his mother) named Brad Pinkerton. He passed her body, not yet cooled (as if anything could cool on the sidewalks of Pasadena), and he was reported saying "She smelled like last weeks garbage."

The autopsy report confirmed that the body was only a few hours old.  Both parents confirmed that the nineteen year old had gone missing earlier that day, just after lunch, when the sun cooked eggs on the concrete. Later they identified Wheeler's dark tresses and the mole on her left cheek. Her parents couldn't recognize much else.

Police investigated the case, calling the case a homicide. Five years later and no murderer had been found. Every third Friday a twenty-four year old woman visits the lawn, though the police have long since removed the yellow tape. She runs her hand along the blazing concrete and smirks, before she walks off, the sun catching the wave in her dark curls.

Lifting Weights

What doesn't kill us now, will eventually.

Birthday cards and Mother's Day cards

feel ten pounds heavier when she's sick,

twenty when she's no longer around to keep them.

Her signature stamped on each one,

blares like neon gas

when her hands no longer sign them.

Prying open each door will leave us

with dead arms and blind eyes.

Pandora's Box

Every memory of the hospital

I locked inside,

with the lost cds,

the forgotten Christmas,

and the Easter she slept through.

_______________

Each 21 days Death pulls out a key

and unchains the chest.

He allows three tears

to escape. The key slips

into his hollow cape.

______________

In the cavity of his chest

he holds our ache,

But he also holds our cure.