Visiting Hours

Visiting Hours

By the wet, leaping dance of lake waters,

we wrote our futures in the air.

Silence doesn’t show itself in a vacuum;

it must be fashioned and embraced.

We built and accepted this stillness,

siting before a peeled-paint, crimson porch,

a tree bowing over moss-hued lily pads,

dressed in bark brown and mint green

and a motionless fish torn open from within.

I wondered then if you knew, or cared,

as you sat there in a wheelchair and brace,

that I spent last night with your best friend;

as if the pain of injury, aborted aspirations

and a six month rehab stint felt like death

enough at age eighteen.

 

 

 

 

 

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