Terminal

This poem was originally published in 2017 in The Santa Clara Review (Volume 104, Issue 2).

back in the hospital, four months

shy of my eighth birthday, death

a faraway train that had not yet stopped

at our station, the impending alarm

all but I could hear.

And I’m watching The Cat in the Hat

white walls, blue sheets, orange

bottle of hand-sanitizer on the table

beside the tissues, the pamphlets,

bed a thousand times more firm

than my understanding of why

I am here.

And I’m texting my brother.

He’s sitting across from me

but he cannot speak

so I text him, tell him about that

“Band Geeks” episode of SpongeBob

he loved so much

and he laughs,

types back:

omg Riley

I’m literally dying rn