Directions to Heaven

the memory of my father

clutches at my coiled stomach

he heeds—‘if you’re going

to die, don’t you bleed all over

the emergency room floor’

.

the fight draining out from

my critical fluids, and right into

that little plastic bag with

the yellow smiley faces, as if it

is glad to watch me suffer

the memory of my mother

sweeps down my shallow chest

she heeds—‘if you’re going

to die, don’t you leave your body

on the steps of the morgue’

.

cold light seeps in from the

corners of my eyes, like ethereal

tea; and at teatime, the doctor

looks at his clipboard and pulls my

line—so now i’ll be on my way.

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