[return to Contents Page]

Origa

Belated

Waking up from anesthesia, I feel cold. The nurse in a Santa Claus hat adjusts a drop counter. She looks at my medical history and sighs, "Oh, I am so sorry–you lost your baby!"

I don't know what to say . . .

recovery room–
a draft and a moon beam
play with the curtains

The nurse asks if I have children. "Yes, a son." She wants to know how old he is. "Twenty five," I say . . .

chilly wind–
the old stump sends out
a tiny leaf