Triage

The magazine slips from your lap,

a glossy thud on the linoleum.

When you lean to reach it,

the overhead tube hums and dies

for a second, then snaps back to life.

Everything is too bright in here.

It shows the dry creek bed of your throat,

that hollow where the bone pulls tight,

a shadow pooled deep enough to hide in.

I want to look away but the plastic chairs

keep me locked in place,

watching you breathe against the glare

until your skin looks like paper

waiting to be torn.