Recovery room.
My words dissolve in the fog
of my mask. I peer at faces
through a spy hole lens,
try to join the fragments.
They slip through my brain
like egg-white through fingers.
Strangers call my name,
speak through seashells.
The clock slips, drips time.
The snap of sterile gloves,
before their cold caress.
The door clicks shut.
My shadow leaks out across
a buy lasix no rx lozenge of light on the floor.
The suck of his breath mirrors mine.
Judith Wozniak lives in Hampshire and spent her working life as a GP. She is currently a student on the MA course at the Poetry School in London. She has had poems published in Reach Poetry and Poetry24.