No Truth in Things

The mattress has been turned over
so the stains you left aren't visible.
The Rorschach blots of darkened blood
I'm deemed unqualified to decipher,
the yellow tape that framed this room,
all traces of the unpleasant, gone.
They would have made this scene more real.
No one sleeps here now, but the bed is made.
It lies, cool, unmussed, brazenly suggests
life is pastel, cotton roses, hospital corners.

Honor McCain



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McCain in the print edition.