Infirm

The sick woman’s eyes are closed under the light 

As they often are: opening them is an effort. 

Lights are too harsh for them, colors too garish, 

The greys outside too much of a reminder. 

Words too small and pictures too large. 

Worse are the noises, the drama of the news, 

The voices on the phone, the cars outside. 

The sick woman closes her eyes and covers her ears. 

When the doctors said she wouldn’t die, 

She said to them, No, that can’t be right. 

Look at me: I am the same as before. 

I took your pills and laid in bed, 

Answered the questions and did what I was told, 

And still, here I am, exactly the same. 

The worm in my heart eats slowly but surely. 

And they looked at her and said: get up, get dressed. 

Get up, get dressed. It’s a simple directive, 

One she can follow, even in this state. 

And from that action, naturally, another. 

The room can be cleaned, this window opened. 

Something to do while she is stuck at home. 

Morning light falls on an unmade bed 

That stays unmade. Nobody will see it. 

At home, nurseless, she cares for herself, 

As one cares for a sick woman. The world, 

In all its complications, zeroes in 

On painkillers and coffee and bedrest, 

On slow cleaning, meals for one, 

On the endless cycle of casual clothes 

That have not been washed for many weeks.

Outside the window, 

The cars keep moving and refuse to stop.

About the Author

Keira Charles is a senior Psychology major. She is graduating this semester.