♥ The Child

In repose against the flimsy mattress with sputtering coughs and incomprehensible wheezing
the child yawns and feels his back - reaching for a grasp.
Will you scratch it?
Of course, where?
Up. Up. There.
Feigning relief and mastering enough courage to fit a smile, a grin, a memory
on his face
he feels the skin's imperfections; little bumps, backbone.
He stops.
And then runs a finger across, tracing a tree.
When I was a boy, Pop drew on my back like this.
What is it?
Guess.
A circle?
No. 
An eight?
Close.
Silence and thought and the crackling congestion breaking its way into the still room
with no where to rest itself.
The child whispers
A flower?
Yes!
Weariness wins with the fear enough at bay to not prevent either from rest
Though in fits he'll worry through the night and hell.
Powerless, unquinch3d. The child dreams and 
Already sounds better, but that doesn't spare the tears.

♠ fna

• the fna show is an experiment in sound and idea recursively crucifying complacency since 2006.
• Episode photo by MI PHAM on Unsplash.

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