Death, not today.
She looks to me with empathy
With eyes that have seen death,
As if to say: today you will not die,
But still I cry— like a bitch, perhaps,
In the sterile white room, with all its
Machinery, and glass and noises—
Foreign, alien and eerily strange.
And inside the plastic shell,
I am magnified & studied;
I think of rivers, over the whirrs—
I think of casts, rippling the water.