Night Float, 2020

Night Float, 2020

At midnight I make my rounds. Like

a white-coated ghost I float, pager on my hip,

gliding from room to beige room.

I’ve now become accustomed with

how this virus flattens color. Every

little thing. The plastic

eggshell-mottled bedrails, or creamy brown curtains.

How, when one is close to death,

the skin begins to pale.

And me a background’s shadow,

busy in the corner

fussing with the ventilator.

But when I reach your room

the jagged green tracing on

your heart monitor glows.

Light blooms across

your hands.

I wonder whose

loving face you’ve touched.

Can’t we

remain like this a moment?

Warmed where the color makes us

something real, something risen,

something seen?