Testimony

by hali l. karla

He had a look to his eye like he’d seen an other side Blue glazed bloodshot, bulging from his shrinking skull nestled in feather cotton plume Fluffed and primped like the lilac fresh linens Softly covering the hole leaking purulent stench in his gut Held hostage to a makeshift bed in his livingroom ten feet from the front door that would not rest. Centerstage, he waited with his eyes. Seven years, six surgeries later, the doctors had signed off Sent him home with dry well-wishes A script for morphine prayer. His family obliged, rightfully so, and took him home to “get” well. He watched them all swarm and fuss To the tick-tock servitude of the family heirloom Keeping time to tedious treatments to ease his body’s oozing degradation with a mix of loyal, muffled disgust In full-on-faith southern hospitality. His uncles shouted to rising sounds of Nascar TV His wife, their son to hip, Declared this day better than the last His mother’s perfumed lotion spread through the room to speak her silence A dozen kin silhouetted the window from the porch. They wanted to feed him a folk-tea miracle remedy with their chatter of children and God. Everything but what lie before them The ceiling fan alone gave testimony oscillating siren shadows across his form A rhythmic lure beyond time Calling him to their slumbering embrace He was thirty four with less than a day No miracle to be had but merciful design He wanted to tell them, He tried to tell them with his eyes. But no one was listening.