there’s a stranger in this room
and she’s uninvited, 
sitting quietly on the other edge
of this hospice bed, 
in my blind spot.
but he can see her, he always could.

when my back is turned i don’t see 
how she turns 
him 
                    into
                                        it
until limbs hang
in a rush, a part of him holds on and gets caught
in my throat: 
warm carnage, too sweet, too fresh
his limp form stings my eyes and i 
shut them tighter, 
as she draws him in with pleasure and insists to me
try it

but i don’t want to tilt my head 
towards this glimpse 
of a shadow
of a man, cloaked 
in bedsheets and a new purpled flesh:
a king in his own decrepit dominion,
lost 
in a dark, low bush
stuck scraping between 
a needle and a thorn
this cruel trick is of her conception

only

iv-drips wink at the
stranger. she takes
a languid sip of 
what used to sustain it
then calls the nurse, the doctor,
the family, the embalmer, the ground,
the stars
leading the monarch
gently 
through the thicket 
and 
into light

formaldehyde 
dries the conscience
and stiffens the air
but preserves 
something, they say.
something that lies
between commas, between breaths,
between us and a stranger 
that we can lie with

Sana is a UC Berkeley student majoring in integrative biology with a minor in creative writing/English. She is also one of Atrium’s editors.