Letter to Greg

Rain beats gravel shakes on my hospital window, 
counterpoint to the shushing of the IV pump. Minutes
drip by in carefully calibrated increments as the night
nurse swoops in silently to draw 
the 5 cc sacrament: pre-Chemo blood work.
Trying to sleep, I will my heart to slow,
know each beat implies a choice, try to place 
myself in the marrow of the moment, imagine
safety from the cellular betrayal of my Judas body.
Inside, I visualize a garden, find no savior, 
only this tenuous beauty strewn with dragons' teeth,
The subdued chatter of nurses changing shift 
codes me into full consciousness and the a.m.
medication cart clatters down the hall,
one wheel spinning relentlessly akimbo.