Lullaby

I sang to it, turning the key on the small white lace musical pillow given at birth to my son by a man now dust. Its quivering mechanical pitches pulsed against my bruised skin, the deepening twilight yellow from the biopsy needle. No longer afraid, my fingers glided over its smooth globe, vacant ballroom, mirrors draped and crackled. If I loved it, maybe it would leave me. I held it, honed tiger steps, red velvet walls of the heart, paws large enough to carry us through any cold room, hips swaying like a pendulum, lugubrious tail trailing the polished floor, chairs knocked over. Other nights,
Source: JAMA - Category: General Medicine Source Type: research