Belmont Hospital
by Jim Fisher

    Mornings in bed, before I dare rise,
    Interns gossip on the early shift
    And hall fluorescence, dimly lit,
    Fringes the door of my closed ward
    Where I resume the denigrations
    Scraping my arms with bitten nails,
    A masochist of dulled compulsion.

    At seven sharp the charge-nurse carts
    Towards my door-lit corner, hypodermic
    Blood bags and whispers instructions:
    The diurnal draw, my doctor's tab
    On mood-dulling brain salt. "Stretch
    Wrist and forearm, so," she insists,
    Tying rubber tubing tight above the fist.

    The compulsion finally pricks the skin
    As I bend my arms, slacken limbs,
    And relax clenched fists. My white
    Underarm, speckled red from the syringe,
    Drops to the bedsheets, then sways--
    My nurse curses, withdrawing yet again
    The cold needle, re-establishing veins.






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