Hospital 5


My brother's in isolation again; when we kiss the tattoo
under his eye grows another star. 3 milligrams: pink

and yellow rabbits in red gilded cups. Glittering ladders
emerge from the head of the woman behind the glass

nurses' station. My brother chews his thumbnail
till it bleeds, then pulls my ear and whispers. Glass cases

of pigs under their arms, the interns stalk the narrow
hallways, heavy grunts with each step. Chalk and paper

cuts enter my brother's soft palate. The one-handed
janitor finds razor blades and sky-blue strands of hair

blocking the guts of the sink. White noise heavy
on our eyelids. Tattooed pigs walk barefoot, sideways,

across the flooded bathroom floor. I woke up
with all my gold teeth gone, my brother tells me,
small dark rooms for my tongue.