More from Wicked Alice

SAINT MONICA OF THE GAUZE

The room is red with iodine. Her ears stop
and her thighs slacken against
the bed. The owls would like to unwrap

her, as owls do, always looking
for the next loose shutter, the goldfinch
bathing in a pile of spilled parmesan

in the convenience store parking lot.
She explains a few things. Static
wracks the telephone line, a dry tornado

on the helipad after a freeway crash.
The linoleum has seen years of other feet
and beds rolling in and out, how

they hauled her from the gurney as if
she weighed something other
than what was left. They ask: but what

about your Cleveland flowering pear
trees, or the creeping vinca, the clematis
your husband promised to burn if it

came back?
They say that she will get out.
There will be time and muscle
enough for hanging wet towels on a line.

© Mary Biddinger 2007