Resident Artist 2: David Arthur, No. 8

 

Theremin Spirits Speak by WJ Lindberg

Theremin Spirits Speak by WJ Lindberg

 

David Arthur, No. 8: Bed of Roses

I could not believe a hospital bed
was my last form of comfort.
The crunch of biohazard plastic
and a smell of stale, lifeless environment
was my final embracing touch.
 
My soundtrack was beeps and clips
measured by life support. Another
theremin instrument, playing a heartbeat
by stretching hope, never leaving
a trace of faith. There was no room for that.
 
Trust was held by a string, and the last
of your life played me like a harp.
Your voice orchestrated like violins
and laughter, asking my adult body
to share the adjustable twin mattress.
 
Like soft wrinkled leather, I felt 80 years
of motherhood trapped inside your palm,
as you traced my temples.I choked on
your merriment and understood the jovial choir
you let out, chuckling as I laid on stale sheets
“That’s much better” you sighed.
 
Not knowing, breaking down, this
was the last time you could comfort me.
And I still cannot digest; it was my signature
which allowed you to depart. When 3 years later
all I want, is to be back in that hospital bed.
 

Copyright © 2016 by David Arthur

 

 

 

 

 

 

One thought on “Resident Artist 2: David Arthur, No. 8

  1. Emma B.
    September 23, 2016 at 5:43 pm

    David Author paints such a powerful emotional i.age that shakes an individual to their core. This poem is the perfect example of that.

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