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THE ANGELS by Maria Hummel

They have not come for you. They will not blister
the day with light and swords. The room remains
a room, and not a portal. The syringes
hold no messages, not even plain
emptiness. The food trays, when you eat food,
rattle if I move them, and, if left alone,

They have not come for you. They will not blister
the day with light and swords. The room remains
a room, and not a portal. The syringes
hold no messages, not even plain
emptiness. The food trays, when you eat food,
rattle if I move them, and, if left alone,
sink beneath the ice of grease. The good
doctor is pregnant, and strokes her own
belly when she speaks. In a thousand years
no one will remember any of this.
The hospital will be a ruin. Your
tubes twisted in a dump, or burned. But if wrists
are stumps, hands are trees; I lift yours to learn
how the wind moves. Hold them to know where it turns.

 

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About Maria Hummel

Maria Hummel
Maria Hummel's poetry and prose appear in Poetry, Narrative, The New York Times, and The Open Door: 100 Poems, 100 Years of Poetry Magazine. She is a Jones Lecturer at Stanford University and lives in San Francisco with her husband and son.