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Night Nurse
By Andre Bagoo


First one stitch then two

rising through keloid flesh like dreams.

My body knows before I do.


My scar yields things to you,

a fine blue thread, left behind by the nurse

who smiles, who sees

how well my wound heals.

He says, ‘Soon you will be free.’


Time is flesh: all we were, all we are,

all we will be. The body, it knows.

The future writes our dreams.



time passes and

all I have is the poem



Floors yellow, walls yellow, doctors

In photographs with successful teeth

Mudslides on the news, the television

In the corner is the constant witness

Words here bend into medical tests

What disease? How many kidneys?

Meteors crash onto green chairs

Families crater then settle into

Waiting (time) waiting (service)

Weighing the options: live or die?

A soul or no soul? Maybe the soul

Is like the line of a poem depending

On what’s before, what’s coming,

Then going somewhere else. Stories.

Exit is the clearest sign. The magazine

Rack has not been touched in years.

A scrawl on the wall asks of its origin

Perhaps a child left it behind. A child

Who was waiting to find out if

Mother died, his cousins shivering

Under blankets. The room before love.

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