Everything Madelyn Collins Everything is blank The stares on the nurse’s face walls and ceilings floor tiles and hospital scrubs My mind is empty Everything is bland other patients unseasoned hospital food spaghetti that made me miss the way my mother makes it Everything is silent The air when I am asked a question The room in which we eat our tasteless food The hallways we trudge along Even my cries at night
Z
“Pot of Patterns,” by Alex Irhin 34
