Hoisted out, you remain Buddha-like, betraying the fact that I am the one supposed to convey inner calm. Threaded puppet legs dangle.
I remove the piss-stained sheets with a soliloquy about the state of the English weather and last night's football match. Your response is a rattle.
I feed you scrambled egg from a small plastic spoon. I cluck and encourage like a mother hen. You open your beak and gape. I scrape the plate clean and pop it all in.
Before the crisp white sheet makes its full descent, it is tamed and tucked, I take pride in my hospital corners. My hands work deftly To smooth away the creases.
It is only then I notice you watching me.
Victoria Cole originally trained as a mental health nurse. Currently, she is the clinical team leader for a psychological therapy service in North Devon, UK.
This poem is from The Hippocrates Prize 2011, published by The Hippocrates Prize in association with Top Edge Press. © Victoria Cole.
Chosen by Femi Oyebode.
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