The Shower
Crystal j. zanders
Lathering off the why won’t they tell us anything, and the cold zone
in the hospital hallway with the faded sign that for the ICU and the con-
vulsions and the nausea and the resurgence of mama’s Mexican lasagna and
the nurse’s identification of the black beans and the not quite conscious
conversations and the whatisyourfullname whereareyou whatistodaysdate and the
uncomfortable glances when you begin crying again and everyone pretends
not to notice.
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Scrubbing off the scent of flowers, antiseptic, and a desperate sort of
cheerfulness and the dance of chairs and the waiting room and the bath-
room and your room and eat a couple more bites and five episodes of
Friends and and the search for a toilet that doesn’t collect urine samples
and the nurse’s expression when you ask if you can go outside and the
conversations about hair and the conversations about actors and the closed
door conversations, conversations that you say make you paranoid.
Rinsing away the it is not a crazy house and the asylum is what they called
it back in 1910 and the say “hospital” or “facility” and the should we pack the
summer’s eve and the wide tooth plastic comb not the metal rat tailed comb and the final
hug and the normalcy of see you on Tuesday and the elation and regret and
relief and resignation as they release us from the locked waiting room and
we breathe in the cool night air.