Degree of Separation

My tongue is heavy with the taste of tin,

a metallic sourness that sits in the back.

This is where the walls start closing in

and the world begins to go a little slack.

I’m waiting for the beep to tell me the score,

to tell me how much of myself is on fire.

I’m a patient now, not a person anymore,

just a heap of heat and a sudden desire

to have a cool hand on the side of my face.

But the hallway is dark and the house is still.

The red digital numbers glow in the space,

a flickering count of the cost of the chill.

One hundred and two. The plastic is cold

when I pull it out and set it on the nightstand.

It’s a very small way for a story to be told,

held in the palm of a shaking hand.