Arlene AngSonnenizio on a Line from Sarah Law
The dull blinds down meant suffering. Or night.
From the door, the night nurse mixed another cup
of coffee. Black. Like a lung x-ray, a nightstick
swinging from the hip of a night watchman.
The night room dreamt itself into the morphine
bottle. On the night stand, the lamp fizzled
and unzipped night over the bed like a body bag.
Shadows sifted nightcrawlers on the walls.
The hummingbats came later. With night vision.
She watched them draw the night into her bones,
blow out her nightdress, and read nectar on
her lips as if she were braille. Or night jasmine.
In time, the midnight rain became afternoon;
her death rattle stirred the night nurse's spoon.