Sanie’s State

We stand around her bed, like weeds

rooted and swaying in place to the motion of her breaths.

“You have her hands,” is what I say

after close examination. Because she does,

and somehow it becomes the most important detail.

It’s a pointless sentiment, already dissipated

and forgotten. But my words are worth more

when I’m alone, anyway. So I wait

for evenings to sound out the syllables in her name,

one in each accent, so I never forget. And I’m selfish,

but that’s nothing new, as I work hard to draw

her consciousness closer to the surface of her skin,

though sometimes, even on the best of days,

the nighttime brings nothing.

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