The Nap

The nurse calls a name that isn't mine.

Under the flat, white hum of the ceiling,

I sit and work my thumb against the cuff.

She said I look like I’ve finally given up.

Maybe I have. The wool is tired,

clumped into thousands of tiny, matted stones

that feel like braille for a story

about a winter I don't want to lose.

The light catches the fuzz, a coating

of fine grey silt that won't brush off.

I pinch a pill and pull until the thread

gives way, leaving a small, dark hole

where the warmth used to be.