Tuesday poem #606 : Hannah Siden : St Paul’s Medical Short Stay Unit

 

 

In my room there’s a cross on the wall
Jesus with pins in his hands

Below that, a strange painting 
Of two people holding a giant fish 

Their faces blurred just enough
To tip them into the uncanny valley 

The walls are pale yellow where sun hits
Peeling eggshell under the windowsill

I’m listening to Lana’s new album
But skipping the preaching

Outside the window it’s pure glory
Inside, the clock shifts minute by slow

Minute & each hour they take vitals,
Blood & urine & breath

The nurse tells me her daughter is 31
One year older than me

She asks how long I’ve been sick 
Her daughter’s in her eyes when I answer

She looks after me like a mother
& fusses when I react to medical tape

I have been sick three years counting
I am always counting

This collage of ugly hospital art
& needle sticks with too many tries 

Aslam responds to my text 
What is a water deprivation test?!

Since the unreal became routine
I keep forgetting to explain things 

Anyways, how are you doing?
I’m feeling calm

I’m dreaming of Hollywood
Today sunshine is enough for survival

Tomorrow it may not be
But there’s always a new place 

To shift my gaze 
There’s always that kitschy wooden Jesus 

& the clock that survives each minute 
As it comes

Always a new painting to tell you about
& a new day with it

 

 

 

 

Hannah Siden is a writer and filmmaker living on the unceded territories of the Musqueam, Squamish, and Tsleil-Waututh Nations (Vancouver, BC). Her poetry has been published in PRISM International, Canthius, Room Magazine, The League of Canadian Poets, Metatron Press and elsewhere. Find her on Twitter @hannah_siden or at https://www.hannahsiden.com.

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan

Tuesday poem #605 : David Harrison Horton : A Song of Statuary

 

 

With a gift of live chickens,
having crossed the better part
of the county on foot,
you find your friend is out.

The otters make noises
that do not belong in city libraries;
although, the shelver
has started to glimmer.

There is no mail today.
It is a bank holiday.

The crabs scatter across the shore,
trying to avoid the tide’s pull.
The child has colored
outside of the lines.

 

 

 

 

David Harrison Horton is a Beijing-based writer, artist, editor and curator. He is author of Maze Poems (Arteidolia) and his chap Model Answers is forthcoming from CCCP Chapbooks. He edits the poetry zine SAGINAW.

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan