Sisters of Mercy

Sisters of Mercy

“Time rushes toward us with its hospital tray of infinity varied narcotics, even while it's preparing us for inevitably fatal operation.”
Tennessee Williams, 1951

By Tatiana Pahlen

Amorphous fluids flow into my veins. Alas!
My pupils wide open — tiny black dots;
all limbs are heavy but my brain remains
producing a vibrant pain
through a soaring throb.

The frame of the iron bed is small;
my feet are barely touching the floor.
I'm bending my body, fatigued and sore,
studying the clock
on the hospital wall.

The Sisters of Mercy, sweet angels,
nursing my fiery forehead,
with faces radiant, tranquil,
draining my blood;
all exude kindness
through eyes, weary and sad,
and go extra miles,
resurrecting the dead.

Hoary clouds gather at my bed –
a bunch of Bedouins,
gliding through the window.
I count, but forget how many they are.
As they transform from phantoms into inert slabs,
my benumbed body begins to spin and dance.

I dance my way through the tunnel beyond wakefulness
to find luminous lights at the end of the den,
where arms of an unknown being
spread towards me:
A dulcet sigh, "Come near, child,"
leaving to deem, if I'm blessed or damned.

I'm feeling my cells filling in rapture;
a blissful tremble stirs my limbs as one,
before the edgy voices of Sisters of Mercy
yell hard, as they keep punching and pressing
my besieged heart.