Today I glue strips of colored fabric
on a round cheese box
to hold my bobbins
I think of your small intestine
glued together by scar tissue
As I spread Elmer’s glue
with a brush
your friend rushes you
to the emergency room
Strips of speckled blue cloth
along the edge of thin wood
strips of scar tissue
form adhesions
a blockage in a pink tube
Green ribbon shot with gold
orange flowers on pink
in a fan pattern
You in your blue cotton gown
tubes in your nostrils
turn the glue bottle upside down
waiting for the drip
while far away
the IV drips glucose into your veins
No solid food for you.
I squeeze the plastic bottle,
air wheezes back in
The tubes in your abdomen
suck the material away
I slide my brush over woven material
squares and rectangles of blue
and green hospital walls
I have a little cheese box covered with bright cloth.
I cannot cover the distance between us.
Written February 28, for my sister having surgery
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