Resident Artist 2: David Arthur: BED OF ROSES

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.