Bruno says I’m pretty—
the noble sentiment he must make.
My bravery resides in hospital curtain
resurrections. I’m still here
and I must listen to Bruno now. He talks
with a swollen bird’s chest—warm air
about ignorance
and so on. Then sympathy is paused
with each enlightened thrust
positioning the rump just so
as if glass will suddenly overflow.
Afterwards I’m still pretty
and he’s on his backbone
inaudibly hailing Mary. I’m cursed
to gum thrown bones the rest of my life. There was a time when sheets bled

and their only concern
was if I was hurt. There’s a first
and a sudden last for everything
and the world’s cadence becomes
he was so young
for the man still in the room—a corpse
cursed with ear drums
as Bruno rattles on
about ignorance:

 And see? I did it. Why can’t they?