Intensive Care

I despise this bleached Eden.
This cold and clinical forest
where clear, vine-like tubes
twist around metal trees.

You lie, a ghost
unable to crumple the crisp bed sheets.
A pale Persephone, perfected.

I once placed a vase of sunflowers
on the windowsill, enough
to make Van Gogh blush.
But such gold was unwanted
by the whiteness;
they wilted like ants
under a magnifying glass.

I come with a sack
of glitter-stuffed cards from the kids.
They miss you, you know.
Though Henry won’t be visiting anymore;
he doesn’t understand why I still come.

I am outnumbered by the machines
clustered around your bedside,
druids at witching hour.
They gossip in beeps and whirs.

The mountain range of the monitors
reminds me why I am here.
Somewhere, buried deep within
this featureless shroud,
your heart is still beating.

Something you always said,
“It ain’t over ‘til it’s over.”

I turn to leave and realise
I have not been the only visitor,
Death’s footprint is in the dust.