Patients
Something I can bring myself to care about,
aside from love, is Lisa telling me about
the HIV counselor, working with her
at intake, who couldn’t find a vein
because all of them are shot
and what it means that Randall plans
to spend the night in his backseat
for the 27th night, because, he says,
a rented roof is a searing chest
in exchange for empty pockets but
a warm glow in a cold car will help
him meet tomorrow, gracefully
and what can I tell Lisa when she pleads
with me, says doing this means breaking
free from the weighted, fleece awareness
only a syringe has known to dress her in
when the truth is, my heart rests only
for the beds of your fingers, and it takes
just one dinner alone for the velcro,
covering up the vacuum-factory
in my chest, to come screaming off.
I roll replayed hugs over my tongue
like honey cough drops, cough up
dust until you call
I keep a weighted blanket, too,
for when you don't come home
and so I can't begrudge her this
Randall’s a smart guy who knows
I haven’t spent a single night in my car,
and Lisa’s eyes are surveying my ripe
capillaries and across a desk we speak
about what it is to be a punch- balloon,
an overfull latex body on a rubber band
on the ham-handed fist of the universe,
knocked back against some same outer
effervescence, and a yawning, gasping
dead air in between.
Eliza is a social service worker, animal caretaker and emerging poet from St. Petersburg, FL. Her works tend to be introspective and relational, centering emotional and interpersonal concerns. Previous work has been published in Poetry Super Highway.