Wrist Archive

Found it clipped and coiled, a pale plastic band,

underneath old receipts, lost in a drawer.

My name, printed there, by someone's hand,

a date, too, from some unremembered war

against the body, against its quiet fright.

It’s gone yellowed now, the ink a smear,

a ghost of information, held too tight.

I trace the faded numbers, still can hear

the beep of monitors, the hollow hall.

This loop of plastic, a small, stubborn lie

that I was ever fully well at all,

just held together, while the hours went by.