Marissa Simone McNamara

I.
The doctor wears white. Her lips move.

II.
I follow the quick nurse's shoes.
A white maze of halls.
Swinging door from out to in.

III.
He wears a cotton gown. I know it is tied in the back.
He is on a conveyor
poised to enter the machine.
Metal swallows the room.

A tube arches from his nose and mouth.
The lights are bright.
His skin is yellow, eyes like milk.

A measured red line moves on the machine.

IV.
A nurse removes the tube.

She hands me a towel. I wipe his face.

His name is typed on a white plastic wrist band.
The black letters try to make him real.