Papers by Trish Lindsey Jaggers
There is a shade of white the hospital pillowcase turns, after the head leaves it, after the heat... more There is a shade of white the hospital pillowcase turns, after the head leaves it, after the heat leaves the imprint, sheets and towels pushed away like bathwater foam; and the smell grows, the shampoo, the thin sliver of soap dried to the bottom of the plastic washtub, dead bubbles dusting its sides; and the straw-tip bows lower in the plastic glass as sweat hesitates, then slips over fingerprints; wisps of white and almost white curled into the thin teeth of the complimentary comb. And the blinds are slightly open, like his eyes were before I closed them, light coming through in stripes, slow-crossing the room like a white tiger.
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Papers by Trish Lindsey Jaggers