Maureen Kingston
Countdown
Recovery after surgery. Minor. The anesthetic more twilight than full. I feed you bits of toast and sips of water. Still drowsy, you lie back on the pillow, pull the sheet diagonally across your face. I smile at the familiar pose. Humidor tent, you call it. Comfort cocoon, I think, but rarely say. Puffed chest and cocked brow—the closest our ancient bodies come to sparring these days. The nurse slips into the room, fiddles with the IV bag. After taking your pulse, she tugs at the sheet, manages to peel it down to your shoulders. You grunt, re-stake the humidor tent. “Would you mind?” she asks, motioning for my help. “Do we have to?” I can’t see the sheet’s harm. “No,” she says, “but it’s freaking me out.”
dress rehearsal war re-enactors stomp the divots
About the Author
Maureen Kingston’s poems and prose have appeared or are forthcoming in Failed Haiku: A Journal of English Senryu, Gone Lawn, Gyroscope Review, MacQueen’s Quinterly, Maudlin House, Modern Poetry Quarterly Review, Sledgehammer Lit, Unbroken Journal, and Whiskey Island. A few of her poems and prose pieces have also been nominated for Best of the Net and Pushcart awards.