Home Visit

Near the violet blinds
that turn the dawn vein-blue ,
the stand, tall as a child.
She hooks from it, your iv bag,
the liquid a pale oxlip yellow,

the odd good kind of poison, threads
the tubes into your tubes,
as if all we are is this kind
of plumbing, a machinery of sorts
fed into this ritual

How good she is at all these acts of care -
this treatment, small by small task
carefully done, and too, the daily medicine
of small talk, a strange transubstantion.
Sickness to health, we're somewhere inbetween.

Poem contributed by Sarah Davies.

Photo by Mitchell Griest on Unsplash.