Morphine Means Truth
Apology he gives anesthetized.
Post-op, private, besides a public bed,
you know you shouldn’t be afraid. Advised
to save his life, remove all cancer, shed
ability to actualize devised
desire, too weak to wield his weight, creates
with brown eyes bold, bedside, a favored five
year old you never want to be — awaits
meek peeks. Morphine he weeps; his words
so slurred you catch just fIve: “how long I hurt
you.” Truth that you’ve survived but never heard.
Comfortable, confesses candid, curt --
that you’re unmedicated feels obscene.
All pain he gives to you without morphine.
- by Kristin Garth -
Kristin Garth is a poet from Pensacola and a sonnet stalker. Her sonnets have stalked the pages of Occulum, Anti-Heroin Chic, Fourth & Sycamore, Drunk Monkeys, Ghost City Review and many other publications. Her chapbook Pink Plastic House is available through maverickduckpress.com.