Owl
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Intaken
clipboards rustled,
an anti-satisfaction of scribbled miffs.
she could hear herself not matter,
and fail to breathe.
they were a cabal of lemmings
summoned, not quite yet, to make her fall:
a demise crafted in the style of sly traps,
the sort that bind suture by scurry,
syringe by footstep.
were ants this quiet
to the march of other ants?
did the hormone-rich glands of insects
merely stare?
if pain could blossom in a thorax,
why did it hibernate in the human heart?
but
the doctor’s smile was turning mandibular.
the nurse’s lips were becoming feelers.
the back of the man in the white coat
could have been the front.
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